


The Bookshop

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Fluff, M/M, Massage, Mild S&M, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: Severin is a jack of all trades - at least when those trades have to do with pleasure. Richard runs a poetry bookshop. Neither of them have seen their brothers in a long, long time - and both of them are keeping secrets.





	1. Mr. Moran

* * *

  
_Being your slave, what should I do but tend_  
_Upon the hours and times of your desires?_  


-William Shakespeare

* * *

The oven timer pinged upstairs just as the chimes downstairs jingled. Richard was momentarily split in two directions, his arms reaching for the oven while his feet budged toward the stairs. 

Then he opted to treat the cookies with the attention they deserved; their sweet, chocolatey scent was already wafting through his studio. 

Inge came upstairs in just a moment, standing in the doorway in snow-wet boots. 

“Pregame baking?” she asked. Her fair cheeks were rosy from the cold; in her knit hat she looked like she belonged in an L.L Bean catalog, blonde, blue-eyed, and pretty as a postcard. 

“Just baking,” Richard said with a shrug, slipping on his new cute cat-print oven mitts. A Christmas gift from Inge. “They’ll cool off while we’re gone.” 

“I’m sure we’ll be starving afterward. Tell me – did Tali seem suspicious today?” Inge asked excitedly. “I almost let it slip during breakfast.” 

“How does something like that ‘almost slip?’” Richard asked, placing the baking sheet atop the oven.

The cookies looked perfect: Slightly undercooked, the chocolate chips gooey but the dough still mushy in the middles, just as he liked.

He continued, imitating Inge, “‘Good morning, my beautiful wife. Today I’m visiting a BDSM Dom in his office in Manhattan so that he can show me how to surprise you with a kinky Valentine’s Day to spice up our marriage. Can you pass the pancake plate?’” 

“Well, I wasn’t _that_ obvious,” Inge said. She bounced from foot to foot as the horrible cuckoo clock above the oven squawked at the turn of the hour. “Rich – hurry up! I don’t want to be late.” 

“The Dom might _punish_ you,” Rich teased, and she stepped into the kitchen so that she could whack him in the arm. 

“Yes, precisely. Now let’s _go,”_ she said. 

She was smiling, though, and Rich knew she was only rushing him out of nervousness. She’d considered cancelling the appointment more than once in the last week, and she’d called him at 2 A.M. last night to seriously discuss the possibility that this man might be a murderer. 

Mr. Moran. It sounded like a real name, not one of those BDSM pseudonyms. He supposed he was glad they weren’t off to meet Mr. Beater or Doctor Dragon. 

Rich found it unlikely that a man passing out business cards advertising his name and profession – _kink consultant_ – could be a murderer. He seemed a little too obvious for such a thing. Although, of course, perhaps that was the point. 

“All right, I’m ready,” said Rich, grabbing his coat off the back of his armchair. Inge led him down the stairs into his shop: The lights were dimmed, the classical music that normally played from the ceiling speakers muted. Tali had closed up an hour ago before heading home. 

“Did Tali give you the keys, by the way?” Rich asked. 

“No,” said Inge. “She forgot to lock it. Again. You should hire better employees.” 

The shop, even after all these years, was still Rich’s favorite place in the world: From the soaring bookcases to the little flower garden out in the back, it was his personal paradise. On the wall was the calligraphy he’d painted so carefully, curling letters of ebony: 

  
_I dwell in Possibility – a fairer House than Prose –_  


He’d named the shop Walter’s Place, after Whitman, but he’d snuck in as many references as he could to Emily Dickinson, too. His favorites in a whole shop full of poetry. 

He had a lot of favorites, though. He was indecisive. 

He locked the door behind them, first flipping its sign to ‘Closed for Now,’ which Tali had also forgotten to do. Probably she’d had her head stuck in some book, doing a bit of afternoon peripatetic reading as she ended her shift behind the counter. 

They hopped into Inge’s car parked right on Seventh Avenue, and she said, “Would you like to drive? I’m feeling vaguely nauseous.” 

“I would, but I don’t know how,” said Richard unhelpfully. He added, “But don’t worry. If this Mr. Moran tries to pull anything, I’ll be there with you.” 

Inge raised her eyebrows while she slipped her key into the ignition. “There to do what, exactly?” 

Richard pretended to take offense. “You’re the one who wanted me for moral support!” 

“I know,” said Inge miserably, as her car purred to life, “but it’s just now dawning on me that you are literally the least threatening person in the world, and my life rests in your hands.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” said Richard brightly, and they drove toward the Brooklyn Bridge. 

* * * *

“Wow. Wall Street,” Inge said as they passed the Charging Bull, dodging out of the way of tourists’ cameras. It was a nice, sunny day: A street vendor was passing a boy a vanilla ice cream cone, a banker was shouting into his phone. “This doesn’t feel murder-y at all.” 

“Nor BDSM-y,” said Richard. What they were doing felt perfectly normal because they were surrounded by normal people doing normal things – rushing back to work from their lunchbreaks, sightseeing – and it was statistically improbable that they should be doing anything bizarre. 

The security guard at the skyscraper they went into found their names in Mr. Moran’s guest list easily, and sent them up to the twenty-fifth floor. The elevator ascended quickly. 

“Having second thoughts?” said Inge. 

“I’m just here to give you moral support,” said Richard. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Even if it’s not fun, it’ll be an experience.” 

“Experiences are good,” she agreed, and the elevator door slid open. 

It opened into a warmly-lit office with floor-to-ceiling windows; soft classical music played while a secretary at a glass desk typed on her laptop. Richard’s first thought was that she didn’t look particularly ‘BDSM-y.’ She was wearing a knit cardigan and had two brunette braids swept behind her shoulders. She looked up at them and smiled. 

“Hello,” said Inge. Richard stood behind her awkwardly, pretending they were normal people in a normal kind of office about to do a normal sort of thing. “My name’s Inge? I’m here for an appointment with Mr. Moran.” 

“Of course,” said the secretary, typing something fast without looking down. “Let me show you in.” 

She stood and led them behind her desk, where there was an opaque glass door that she slid open. Richard had pictured a darkened, dungeon-esque lobby area where they’d wait for an hour or more for a mysterious, possibly dangerous man to show up, but when she led them in he spotted Mr. Moran immediately. 

He was sitting at his own desk, reading a book, and Richard’s first thought was that he looked innocuous, like the stranger you’d be relieved to find if you were lost in a foreign city. A moment later he found it remarkable that _innocuous_ was the first word that had popped into his mind, because really it should have been handsome, or gorgeous, or male model, or more appropriately just a kind of wordless mental blubbering as his brain struggled to process what he was seeing. 

Mr. Moran had blue eyes like the coolest of flames, strangely visible from across the room. Rich’s mind scrambled for metaphors, glimpses of poems, old words. Something to do justice to a perfect face: the high cheekbones, strong jaw, the pale curved Cupid’s bow of his lip, and the long nose, upsetting his Nordic palette. His blond hair was swept back in tousled locks at the top, the sides neatly shaven. 

Richard merely stood there, mute, immobile, processing all of this and everything else. He saw Mr. Moran with utter clarity: the faint lines around his eyes, like the ghosts of smile wrinkles; his Adam’s apple, the way he swallowed; how long his fingers were, with bold knuckles, as he set down his book. The book: Shakespeare’s sonnets. 

Goodness. He was reading poetry. He was reading _Shakespeare._ It seemed fantastically improbable; it made Richard giddy. 

Then Inge said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Moran,” and Richard remembered why he was here, and how he really had nothing to do with this at all, and he certainly had no business reacting in this way. 

Mr. Moran stood up and swept around his desk. He had a definitive military build: Broad-shouldered, over six feet, his black knit sweater clinging tightly around his muscular form, his posture a little too perfect. Richard immediately forgot his last thought and his heart pounded rapidly. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Inge,” said Mr. Moran. “And please, call me Severin.” 

After a brief, warm handshake with Inge, he turned his sights on Richard, which was inevitable, considering the very predictable steps of self-introductions, but Richard was caught off-guard anyway, and felt the slightest bit faint. It took him a full second to remember to offer Mr. Moran his hand. 

“I see Inge brought a friend,” said Mr. Moran kindly, and this was Richard’s third observation: His kindness. He reminded Richard of a Tibetan monk he’d met once, a man who had simply exuded compassion. He’d displayed it not only to a chosen few but to everyone he encountered. It was the sort of remarkable quality that one could sense immediately. Richard had never expected to find it here, but he did. 

Mr. Moran’s hand was splendidly warm. Richard felt himself relaxing. 

“How do you know he’s not my boyfriend?” Inge teased, and Richard could tell that she was relaxed, too – relaxed enough to tease, to smile in a way she hadn’t their entire trip here. 

“I just have a feeling,” said Mr. Moran, smiling, “although you are welcome to tell me I’m wrong.” 

“I’m Richard,” Richard said, so softly that Inge mustn’t have heard, because she responded, “His name is Richard. I brought him with me for moral support.” 

Mr. Moran seemed to have heard Richard, though, or perhaps had read his lips. There was something about the way he looked at Richard that made Richard feel he was listening. 

“I’ve never had anyone else do that before, but that sounds like a fantastic idea,” said Mr. Moran. “I might recommend it to others in the future. Come on, then. Let me show you to the spa.” 

“The spa?” Inge repeated, following him through another doorway. 

When Mr. Moran opened the door, Richard could see only a white wall with a lovely, abstract mural on it, black shining ribbons in a sea of color. _(He has good taste in art,_ Richard thought excitedly and pointlessly.) When he stepped inside, however, he saw that hanging from both the side walls were all the props a devilish dom could ever desire: whips and floggers and ropes and leather handcuffs, and plenty of things that were far beyond the range of Richard’s knowledge. 

“I believe this is what most people call a ‘dungeon,’ Severin,” Inge said. 

Severin smiled broadly – perfect, white teeth, everything about him heart-shatteringly perfect. 

Nothing had even happened yet and Richard was already struggling to keep track of the confused cocktail of emotions he was going through: an adrenaline spike from all of the toys on the walls; a nervousness that came simply from being in the presence of someone as exceptionally attractive as Mr. Moran; and, most confusingly of all, a huge part of him felt totally at ease, as Mr. Moran exuded his monk-like kindness that went beyond any mere niceties. 

“A dungeon is where people are trapped and tortured,” said Mr. Moran. “Spas are where people come to unwind, let go, heal. As a dom, I get to call my playroom what I like.” 

He winked at Inge and said, “Okay. Are you ready to begin? I’ll close the door.” 

Inge nodded eagerly. Richard had forgotten he was more than a mere witness, and he was surprised when Mr. Moran looked at him, clearly waiting for a response. 

“S-sure,” Richard said, swallowing. 

“All right,” said Mr. Moran. After he closed the door, he rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s start, then. Richard, have you ever done this before?” 

Richard jolted, not expecting to be called out. 

“Done what, Mr. Moran?” he said. 

Mr. Moran smiled. “You can call me Severin,” he said gently. “And I’m guessing you’ve never played the role of a Dom?” 

Richard shook his head. 

“Have you ever been dominated?” 

Goodness. Richard was going to melt, and no one had done anything yet, no one had even moved. 

He shook his head. 

“That’s just fine. I’ll guide you both through this,” Mr. Moran said reassuringly. “Inge, is it okay if Richard ties your wrists to those bars there?” 

Mr. Moran pointed to the left wall. 

“Of course,” said Inge happily. 

“I’ll teach you both how to do the ropes, so that you have an idea of what your wife should be doing when she tries it on you,” said Mr. Moran. 

“Excellent,” said Inge. 

Mr. Moran handed Richard a rope as Inge positioned herself beneath a metal bar that Mr. Moran was able to adjust so that, when she lifted her arms experimentally, it was at a comfortable height. 

“The safe word in this room is simply ‘red,’” said Mr. Moran. “Or ‘yellow’ for when you’d just like to slow things down.” 

Inge and Richard both nodded. 

“Now, Inge. Could you get into position?” Mr. Moran asked. 

Inge beamed and raised her arms to the bar. The rope in Richard’s hand felt unexpectedly soft but heavy, firm. Mr. Moran made quick work of showing Richard how to tie it, using his own wrist as an example. 

Hands trembling, Richard brought his rope to Inge’s wrist and began to loop it around her. 

“Yellow,” Inge blurted immediately. 

Richard jumped and dropped the rope. 

Mr. Moran grabbed it before it could drop. 

“Sorry,” Inge said. “Not sure why I said that.” 

“That’s no problem,” Mr. Moran said. “Are you sure you want to be tied up?” 

Inge nodded, so Richard tried again. 

But the moment the rope touched her skin, she snatched her wrist away. 

“I’m sorry,” said Richard this time, and they both looked at Mr. Moran nervously, and then at one another, and broke out into laughter. 

Mr. Moran chuckled, too. “Let’s figure out why this isn’t working,” he offered. “What are you feeling when the rope touches your skin, Inge?” 

Inge pursed her lips and thought a moment. “This kind of fast rage. No offense, Richie,” she said quickly. “Like – _how dare anyone tie me up._ Like I want to punch the restrainer in the face – no offense, Richie.” 

“It’s okay,” Richard said faintly, hoping desperately that Inge didn’t try to punch him at any point. 

“That’s a pretty common emotion in people who don’t enjoy submission,” said Mr. Moran. “What would the both of you say to reversing roles, if only for a bit?” 

Inge’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that, for some reason.” 

“Would you be okay with being tied up, Richard?” Mr. Moran asked. 

“Yes,” said Richard, shrugging. 

So they swapped. 

He felt almost eager as they got into position, seeing the way Mr. Moran nodded at him approvingly. Richie raised his head upward and watched as Inge tied his wrists to the bar. The bar was warm from where her wrists had previously rested, and she was quick to learn the rope-work; he felt snug and secure by the time his wrists were tied up. 

“And _that_ is what a submissive looks like,” Mr. Moran said, breaking Richie from his cozy reverie. 

“Aw, you’re cute when you blush, Rich,” teased Inge. 

Richard hadn’t been aware he was blushing, but when Mr. Moran retrieved a leather flogger from the wall, his face positively flamed. 

“Would it be okay if I taught Inge how to use this on you, Richard?” Mr. Moran asked, and Richard nodded, faintly aware he would have nodded in response to any question Mr. Moran asked. 

“Then let’s just turn you around,” said Mr. Moran, and he reached up and loosened some bolt on the metal bar, and, pressing his hand lightly on Richard’s shoulder, he turned Richard so that Richard was facing the wall, back to him, and then Mr. Moran tightened the bar back into place. 

“I’m going to blindfold you to help you relax, Richie,” said Mr. Moran, and a cool, silk cloth was pulled over his eyes, tightened expertly into place by Mr. Moran’s quick fingers. 

Richard liked this enormously. He couldn’t see, and, facing away from them, he couldn’t be seen. It _did_ relax him, freed him from self-consciousness, so that he found himself beaming from ear-to-ear. 

“We’re going to do light to medium swats to your shoulders and back, if you think you can handle that, Richie,” said Mr. Moran, and Richard adored the way Mr. Moran shortened his name like that. “If it gets painful or unpleasant, just say the word.” 

“Yes, Mr. Moran,” said Richard, aware of Inge’s presence, trying to sound as bright and unaffected as she did. 

He was aware of Mr. Moran speaking behind him, giving Inge instructions, but he mostly tuned it out, until suddenly – 

The first swat came, on his upper back, very light. 

Mr. Moran said, “You want to do it quick, like that, so that the tail ends don’t have time to curl around his skin. That would lead to a nasty kind of pain.” 

Another swat came. He was so grateful they couldn’t see his face, because he had no idea what expression he was wearing, but he knew it must be far too revealing. 

Mr. Moran was just _striking_ him, hitting and stroking him so casually, and he loved the idea of that, the idea of being Mr. Moran’s prop. 

_What is wrong with you, Richard?_ he chided himself. Ironically, he felt like some sort of pervert, like Mr. Moran would be repulsed if he knew Richard’s thoughts. 

Richard _was_ just the prop after all – Inge could have brought any friend, and that friend would be in Richard’s place instead. Richard was an unremarkable part of all of this. 

“You try it, now, right here,” said Mr. Moran, his finger stroking Richard’s back. Richard suppressed a shiver and failed. 

Inge hit there, far too hard, and Richard hissed. 

“Oh my god!” Inge gasped. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Richard said. “Just surprised.” 

Mr. Moran’s hand – he knew it was his hand, because it was so large – rubbed Richard’s skin soothingly. 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said to Inge, “but it’s better to be too gentle than too rough too soon. You have nothing to prove.” 

“Got it,” said Inge, and so she tried again. 

She experimented, with much softer strokes this time, for about ten more swats. Richard felt neutral to the entire exchange; it didn’t hurt, and he didn’t mind it. Then, Mr. Moran said, “Your stroke is nearly perfect. All you need is a few happy nights of practice with an eager sub.” 

“I will make my wife _very_ eager,” said Inge.

“If you can believe it, our hour is actually up,” said Mr. Moran. “Let me show you out.” 

Richard raised his head, wondering if he’d been forgotten. But he felt Mr. Moran’s hand on his shoulder, his skin hot. 

“Would you mind waiting there one moment, Richard? I’ll come back in less than a minute,” he said. 

“O-oh!” said Richard, confused. “Of course.” 

“Excellent.” 

He listened to their footsteps. Mr. Moran opened and closed the door, and Richard couldn’t hear anything at all: the ‘spa’ must be soundproofed. 

True to his word, Mr. Moran returned after just a moment. 

“How are you feeling, Richie?” he asked, and Richard’s skin prickled at the sound of his voice. An embarrassing level of one-sided sexual tension engulfed the room immediately, and he only hoped Mr. Moran was oblivious to it. 

“Good, Mr. Moran,” said Richard, focusing on keeping his voice steady. “Are…are you going to untie me, now?” 

“I will if you like,” Mr. Moran said. “But I thought you might enjoy something else first.” 

“O-oh?” 

“I could tell from the moment I saw Inge that she’s the type who, if she only knew it, would vastly enjoy having a little direct power over her partner,” said Mr. Moran, his voice sounding closer. “I’m glad I was able to help her see that today. I’m wondering if, in turn, you’d like to get a quick taste of what it’s like to be a true submissive – more than just a generous volunteer during your friend’s session.” 

Richard’s heart sped up. He had three thoughts. The first: _God, yes, please._ The second: _He’s going to charge me for the price of a session, isn’t he? His Tibetan-monk-compassion is a veneer and he’s actually a conman. Is that possible? Could he do that?_ The third: _I don’t care. God, please…_

“That might be nice,” he finally answered in a measured, neutral tone. 

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he thought he heard Mr. Moran chuckle, could almost see him smirking, as though he knew better than to be fooled. 

“I hope it is,” was all he said, and then he pressed one hand on the small of Richard’s back. This simple touch was lovely. He felt Mr. Moran reach up and loosen a few bolts on the bar, and then he said, “Let’s make this a little more interesting.” 

The bar was raised so that Richard was forced on his tip toes, struggling to keep his balance, transferring his weight constantly from foot to foot. 

“More interesting?” Mr. Moran inquired. 

“Y-yeah – oh!” The first swat came, right across his ass. 

_Holy hell. This is happening._

He struggled on his toes as the flogger hit him again and again. The sting was dulled as the flogger hit through his clothes, but he loved not knowing where Mr. Moran was going to hit next, feeling once again like he was just Mr. Moran’s plaything, like Mr. Moran could do whatever he wanted to him. 

He wasn’t sure how long he was beaten like that for; only that his mind seemed to slip away into some pleasant, foggy place. The flogger spanked hard against his ass, and in a grand finale it lashed against his ass again. 

There was a bang as the flogger clattered to the floor. Quick as a flash – it was more startling for Richard being blind – Mr. Moran’s arm was around Richard’s waist, strong, easing the stress of being on his tip toes. Mr. Moran’s opposite hand was cupping Richard’s chin, and two fingers were stroking his lips – no, not stroking. Seeking entrance. 

Richard took them in without hesitation, sucking on Mr. Moran’s digits eagerly. They tasted salty. They tasted like submission. 

“Mm. Good boy,” Mr. Moran breathed. “You take to this so naturally.” 

Richard moaned against his fingers in response. He wasn’t supposed to moan; he was supposed to seem untouched; but he was so far past that point that the thought scarcely scratched the surface of his mind before it faded away completely. 

“I’ve never seen anyone respond to this quite like you, Richie,” Mr. Moran whispered, no doubt feeling the way Richard’s heart was pounding hard in his ribcage. “That’s a special thing. You’re a very special kind of submissive.” 

The arm around Richard's waist stroked up his side, and he could feel the tips of Mr. Moran’s fingertips through his sweater, sending shivers up his spine. 

“Imagine,” Mr. Moran murmured hot against his ear, “if you were wearing nothing at all, Richie. Imagine how sensitive this would make you.”

Richard already felt plenty sensitive, in his opinion, but Mr. Moran proved his point by stroking a single finger up Richard’s neck. Richard’s heart pounded; his cock throbbed. That simple point of contact was one of the most pleasurable things he’d felt in his life. 

Fast like a wildcat, Mr. Moran pulled Richard’s blindfold away, and his piercing blue eyes were right there, his lips centimeters away. 

“Tell me how much you like being a good boy,” said Mr. Moran. 

Richard’s cock was immediately rock hard. 

“I love being a good boy,” he tried to say, but around Mr. Moran’s fingers, it merely sounded like _I-luff-bein’-a-goo-boy._

Too soon, Mr. Moran pulled his fingers out of Richard’s mouth and pulled away. Richard’s ropes loosened too quickly, too, and then there was nothing holding him up. 

He nearly fell, except that Mr. Moran caught him by the waist. 

“Shh, shh, little one,” he said. “I’ve got you.” 

He helped Richard to his feet, as gentle as he’d been rough moments before. Richard felt vertiginous; he also felt enormously comforted by Mr. Moran’s bulk and body heat, by the way Mr. Moran held him close. 

“Let’s get you into my office,” he said gently. “The session is over.” 

Richard nodded, still feeling like he was floating, like his mind hadn’t quite left that thoughtless, blissful place he’d been earlier. The bright sunlight of the office was a surprise; and he was relieved that Inge was nowhere to be seen. 

“Let’s sit you down,” said Mr. Moran, “and wrap you up.” 

Richard had no idea what he meant until he opened one of his filing cabinet drawers and pulled out a soft, fluffy blue blanket. Richard let him wrap it tight around him, making Richard feel like he was safe and warm inside an igloo. 

“Would you like some water or tea?” Mr. Moran asked. 

“Tea, please,” Richard said, surprised by how small his voice sounded. 

Mr. Moran poured him a cup from a hot water heater across the room. He brought it back to Richard and said, “How are you feeling? I wasn’t really expecting you to, but I think you slipped a little into sub space.” 

To his surprise, Mr. Moran sat on the ground before Richard, on his own knees. It was strange to be looking down at him – stranger to have him looking up at Richard, so intently. 

“Sub space…?” Richard repeated. The tea was the perfect temperature, the heat reviving his tingly, weak limbs. “I…I feel good. I feel really good, actually.” 

He smiled meekly. 

“I don’t mean to startle you with my enthusiasm, but you were genuinely incredible, Richard. You responded so beautifully to everything I gave you – I hope I didn’t overdo it.” 

Richard shook his head. 

“You could have gone on forever,” he blurted, without meaning to, and immediately hid himself behind his cup of tea. 

Mr. Moran only smiled. “So do you think you discovered something new about yourself?” 

Yes. He’d learned that he wanted nothing more than to be Mr. Moran’s plaything. That, in his opinion, it _should_ be called a dungeon, because he wanted Mr. Moran to lock him in there and never let him out. 

He nodded. “I definitely did.” 

“Then my job is done here,” said Mr. Moran. “I hope you have someone in your life to share your new discovery with.” 

“I do,” said Richard automatically, and then thought, for a moment, about how Todd might realistically react to being told that Richard enjoyed being tied up and flogged. Not that he and Todd were even a thing, anymore. “Actually – I don’t. I don’t think he’d… I think he’d find it funny, or something. He’d ruin it somehow.” 

Richard stopped in his tracks when he realized that Mr. Moran had only been speaking rhetorically; Richard hadn’t been supposed to reply candidly. 

But Mr. Moran took it in stride, only standing up and saying, “In that case, I’m going to give you my number.” 

Richard was momentarily dazed. The way Mr. Moran had just moved was beautiful: He hadn’t pushed himself up, had simply stood without using his arms, and Richard didn’t know why such a small thing should be intoxicating, but it was. 

He spotted Mr. Moran's business cards on the desk while Mr. Moran was ripping out a scrap of paper. 

“I could just take your business card,” Richard said helpfully. 

“I’m not giving you my business number,” said Mr. Moran, and there was a definite, mischievous glimmer in his eyes. 

Richard swallowed. 

Did… Did Mr. Moran want to do this again? With _Richard?_

“Here.” He placed the scrap of paper in Richard’s palm and closed Richard’s hand around it. “Let’s get you back into the lobby, before Inge thinks I’ve done something terrible to you.” 

Richard realized suddenly that quite a lot of time had passed, although he had no idea how much. Mr. Moran helped him up, sweeping his blanket away, and then he guided Richard to the office door. 

“Are you ready to face the world again?” Mr. Moran said lightly. 

To his own surprise, Richard shook his head. 

“What do you need?” Mr. Moran asked, and something in his voice seemed to indicate that, no matter what it was, he’d provide it. 

“Would it be very silly if I asked for a hug?” Richard asked weakly. 

“That would be perfectly reasonable,” Mr. Moran responded, and drew Richard into his arms. 

Mr. Moran was _big,_ and Richard only appreciated that more when he was right up against him, Mr. Moran’s arms around him like walls, like a protective fortress. He smelled magnificent, was simply warm and big and hard and lovely. Richard fought the urge to nuzzle his chest, and then the embrace was over, and Richard had no choice but to face the world. 

* * * *

The sun was setting when they emerged back onto the street.

“While you were in there, Jessica, the secretary, gave me all this amazing stuff and taught me almost as much as Severin did,” Inge said excitedly as they walked back to her car. “Look – this is a consent sheet, so I can get an idea of what Tali would want and not want. And Jessica gave me the perfect way to bring it up to Tali, too. She said I should – Richard, are you listening?” 

“I’m trying,” Richard said honestly. 

Inge gaped, stopping in her tracks. “Did he _fuck_ you? You look like you’ve been fucked.” 

“No!” Richard said. “Nothing like that!” 

The memory of Mr. Moran’s blue eyes, so close to his face, nearly made him topple in the street. 

Goodness. Mr. Moran had all but demolished him, and neither of them had taken off a single article of clothing. 


	2. The Day on Fire

When he saw the smoke and the people running, his first thought was the World Trade Center, which was probably every New Yorker’s first thought. His second thought was his secretary, Jessica, because she had asthma. 

All he could think of was that day, over a decade ago, handing out inhalers on an ash-clogged street, stretching out his arm blindly to people who were blindly needing. 

He ran for 110 Wall Street, for the office where Jessica might or might not be, and that was when he peered straight down the street and saw that the East River was on fire. 

Flames streaked along the river, over fifteen feet high, blazing inexplicably atop the water. Severin stopped in his tracks, nearly running into a police officer who was trying to manage the pedestrians all stampeding _away_ from the river. 

Severin and the officer made eye contact, briefly, and it almost looked like the officer was going to stop him from proceeding. 

Then Severin ran toward the fire, toward his building. The glass doors were locked; he banged until a security guard saw him, recognized him, and quickly let him in. 

“Thanks, Frank,” he said, and jumped the turnstile that led to the elevators and stairs. He took the stairs two at a time to the twenty-fifth floor. Even in the stairwell, he could smell the smoke. 

“Jessica,” he said in relief as he burst into their office. 

She was sitting behind her desk, and for some reason she shook her head rapidly. 

He continued, “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you, that – ” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Moran.” A man in a ski mask came out of Severin’s office, pointing a Glock 30S at Severin’s head. 

“Afternoon,” said Severin. He gave Jessica a quick glance: She wasn’t tied to her chair, didn’t seem bruised. Not a hair was out of place, actually; she just looked terrified. Which was, of course, a different kind of bruise, but not one that could be given immediate attention. 

“If you would like to chat, why don’t we do so in my office?” Severin suggested. “Jessica, you can leave early today. Frank will help you downstairs.” 

“I don’t think so,” said the man, and he was about to point the gun at Jessica. That was, to Severin, an unacceptable possibility. 

So Severin ran at the man and kneed him in the kidney, grabbing both his arms and twisting them in opposite directions until he heard a dual _snap._ The man screamed, the gun went clattering to the floor. Then, predictably, before Severin could grab that gun, a second, ski-masked man came out from his office and pointed a second gun at Severin’s head. 

Here was the thing about most people and guns: When most people had a gun pointed at them, the game was up. One party in such an interaction had all of the power, and the other party had none. Most people analyzing such a situation would attribute the sharp shift in power dynamics to the appearance of the gun. 

In fact the determining factor was fear, and Severin had lost his fear a long time ago. 

Here was the thing about Severin and fear: Cocaine addicts eventually lose their capacity for happiness. The drug stimulates the serotonin receptors to the max, until the receptors just fizzle one day, and nothing feels quite so bright again. Severin had never seen a neurologist for this, but he imagined something similar had happened to him and fear. Everyone had a capacity for terror, and Severin had maxed his out years ago. 

So when a second man pointed a gun at him, Severin just said, “I’m willing to talk to you, if you put that down.” 

And when the second man shot at him, Severin dodged out of the way and, reaching out, made quick work of twisting the man’s wrist and dislodging the gun from his grasp. 

A few years ago, Severin would have punched the man in the face, as well, just for the satisfaction of seeing him fall to the ground. But Severin had maxed out his capacity for violent satisfaction, too. 

Severin switched on the safety and threw it across the room. 

“Go, Jessica,” he said, but Jessica just shook her head again. Severin would comfort her in a moment; for now he took the two men by their collars and brought them into his office, sliding the door shut behind them. 

“Who are you?” Severin asked, tossing them onto the floor. “Who do you work for?” 

“Fucking hell,” said one of the men, coughing into his sleeve. “We were supposed to be asking _you_ that.” 

“I’m an independent contractor, thanks,” said Severin. “Take off your masks. I can’t respect anyone who’s too cowardly to be seen.” 

Neither of the men moved. The one man, having two dislocated arms, was justified, so Severin helped him out, revealing a blue-eyed, gray-haired face, nothing about him particularly memorable. 

Nothing about criminals ever was. 

The second man, regarding his incapacitated friend, made quick work to heed Severin, revealing weathered, olive skin and brown hair. Good to know he spent some days without a mask on. 

“Now. What are your names?” Severin asked slowly, patiently, the way a kindergarten teacher might on the first day of school. 

The men looked at one another. 

“Greg,” said the first man. 

“Scotty,” said the second. 

Severin smiled. 

“And why did you come into my office and threaten my secretary?” Severin asked. 

“We were told to find out about your boss,” said Greg. “Jim Moriarty. Who is he, what does he want?” 

“I’ve never heard that name in my life,” said Severin, “so clearly this is a waste of everyone’s time. I’m going to call the police. Perhaps they’ll have more answers for you.” 

Scotty pounced up at that, apparently reenergized, and roared at Severin. Scotty was fast, but Severin had never met anyone faster than himself. Knocking the man unconscious was a quick and simple matter. Restraining him was a convenient one, since there was a surplus of rope within proximity. Although, admittedly, he hated having to use his toys for violence, even if such violence _was_ self-defense. 

After the matter of restraining and gagging the men and phoning the police was settled, Severin went out to attend to Jessica. 

She didn’t turn around when he slid open the door. As he approached her, she only shook her head, blinking back tears. 

“We’re all right now,” he said, trying to be soothing. “You’re not in danger.” 

She shook her head again, and it was peculiar, how she was holding herself, so stiffly, hardly breathing, refusing even to move her neck to look at him. 

He scanned down her chair, and saw what her kitten heel was sitting on. 

It looked like a garage door opener. Her heel was already pressing into its center button; if she moved a millimeter, she could release it. 

A homemade bomb detonator. Possibly. Long or short distance. Possibly. Large explosive or small. Bombs were such an easy business these days. 

“All right,” Severin breathed. Luckily, he knew the number to call in a situation like this. This was something he could manage. 

“You’re making several assumptions by not moving, and while they’re the safest assumptions to make, I just want you to be aware of them,” he said, as his phone rang. “Firstly: That that is, in fact, a DIY bomb detonator. And secondly, that your heel pressing into it hasn’t already set it off. It is quite possible one of those things is not true, but for now – ” 

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you ever again,” Sandra said, in the hoarse, mannish voice he remembered. There were people screaming in the background; she could be in the city or just about anywhere else. 

“I assume you’re calling me because you’d like to save a load of people,” she said. 

“Possibly,” he said. “I might have the detonator to a bomb, and my secretary might be a millimeter from releasing it.” 

“Got it,” said Sandra. “We’ll be there.” 

She didn’t say when, and she didn’t ask where – both a little unnerving, but neither surprising. 

Severin rushed to Jessica and cupped her cheeks, wiping the tears from her face. 

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “I’m going to stay here with you until this is over.” 

Jessica nodded numbly, closing her eyes. Outside the windows, the air was black with smoke; the river incendiary must be growing. He wondered what was making it. Some kind of altered agent orange, maybe. It was like the apocalypse. Like something out of a movie, just when Severin was ready to say he’d seen it all. 

* * * * 

They’d been celebrating Tali’s 28th birthday when someone made the mistake of checking their phone. Richard kept fantasizing about how the celebration would have gone if everyone had just turned their phones off: They’d be dancing amongst the bookcases, eating Richard’s cupcakes, and Wilde and Poe would still be cozily sleeping in their cat beds. 

Instead they’d all abandoned the shop to crowd together in his studio, crouching around his tiny, bubble-screen TV that hadn’t been turned on in about a decade. Wilde kept latching her claws into people’s ankles, and Poe was hissing under Richard’s bed. 

Tali and Inge were clinging to each other in fright. He’d tried clinging to Todd, but Todd had shaken him off, intent upon the screen. 

The news helicopter was hovering over the flaming East River. Pier 11 had burned, was a pile of ash crumbling into the water. Richard’s heart sunk. 

Pier 11 was right by Mr. Moran’s office. 

_I never called him._

That was the selfish, idiotic thought that popped into his head. It’d been three weeks of debating, agonizing, and fantasizing, and now regret washed over his whole body. 

_Please, God,_ he thought. _Let Mr. Moran be okay. Let everyone be okay, please._

“We’re looking now at what’s the worst terrorist attack in this city since 9/11,” said an unseen reporter back at the studio. “Eric Li, a retired national security expert, is here to draw comparisons between today and that historical occasion. Eric – how are you?” 

“How are they already comparing it?” Richard asked. “We don’t even know what’s going on yet! And they didn’t say whether everyone’s okay or not!” 

“Of course everyone’s not okay,” said Todd. “I bet they’ll be more deaths than in 9/11.” 

“Would you hush, Todd?” said Inge. “You’re not helping.” 

“I – I think I’m going to get us more cupcakes,” said Richard, feeling queasy as he stood. Everyone shifted to get out of his way as he made for the kitchen counter. 

When he reached the kitchen, the television got louder, although he was pretty sure no one had adjusted the volume. 

**“CIVILIANS OF NEW YORK.”**

Rchie froze. It was a horrible voice – computerized, robotic, a man speaking through a voice filter. 

“Whoa, Richie, get back here! This is _awesome,”_ said Todd. “The screen just went static.” 

“I think we should turn off the TV now,” said Tali, sounding like she was about to cry. “I think maybe we should go into your basement, Richie.” 

**“I AM SPEAKING ON BEHALF OF THE UNMASKED. I HOPE YOU HAVE ENJOYED OUR SHOW TODAY.”**

“What the _hell?”_ started Inge, but someone shushed her. Richard couldn’t move, didn’t want to see the TV. 

**“WE HAVE NO ENDS TO OUR MEANS, EXCEPT THAT WE WISH FOR THE MASKED ONE TO UNMASK HIMSELF. IT IS HE TO WHOM WE ANSWER. IT IS HE WHO MUST UNMASK. PLEASE CONTINUE TO ENJOY THE SHOW.”**

The television went silent, and Richard thought it was okay to approach. He left his cupcakes in the kitchen; he felt horribly alone, standing even a few feet away from his friends, and he had the passing thought that he was never going to want to eat again. He understood Tali’s urge to hide in the basement. He wanted them all to penguin huddle in the dark until this was over, until this was revealed to have been one long, bad dream. 

But the television wasn’t off as he’d imagined. The screen was black, but white text was scrolling across it. The same words, again and again, 

THIS HAS BEEN AN ACT OF DIVINE VIOLENCE. THIS HAS BEEN AN ACT OF DIVINE VIOLENCE. THIS HAS –

Tali clicked the television off. The screen went truly black. 

“We’re in Brooklyn,” she said shakily. “We’re far away from all this. We’re going to be okay.” 

“I have to call Severin,” Richard said, so faintly that he was surprised when a dozen heads turned to him. “I have to call Severin Moran.”


	3. The Massage

A man right outside the bookshop was reading his latest purchase. Richard took a curious glance at the cover before he stepped into the shop. Then he quickened his pace, hoping to hide his dismay. 

The book was _C.I.A. Unmasked_ by Dr. Lindsey Hopkins, one of the titles that resurfaced to the bestseller list immediately after The Day on Fire (as the media had dubbed it). The man obviously hadn’t purchased it at the bookshop, because Walter’s Place didn’t sell nonfiction. 

Richard set off the chimes as he walked through the door. He hadn’t gone a day without hearing endlessly about the Unmasked Ones, or various conspiracies involving rogue C.I.A. agents, domestic arms dealers, a whole lot of stuff that Richard wanted nothing to do with. 

And besides. Today was his birthday. He should at least be allowed to – 

“Not you, too!” he exclaimed. Tali was behind the counter, her face nearly hidden by an opened _New York Post._ Its front page headline read, 

**DEAD RICH: RIP DR. KHALID’S KIDS**

Yes. He’d heard the news on the subway, pieced together from the excited whisperings of strangers. Dr. Khalid, of Khalid Hotels, had been killed by terrorists on The Day on Fire, and now, a month later, his children had both killed themselves. A grown daughter and son, destined to inherit his multibillion-dollar business, had hanged themselves in the same room. Foul play was suspected. It was being investigated. Richard wanted so badly to soak his feet in hot bathwater and read a book. 

“I can’t believe you’re reading the _New York Post,”_ he said. 

At that moment Wilde leaped from the top of a bookcase – over ten feet in the air – and landed on Richard’s shoulders. 

Both Tali and Richard cracked up as Wilde climbed up Richard’s back and, once safely balanced on his shoulder, reached out and tapped his nose. 

_Boop._

“Wilde is wishing you a happy birthday,” said Tali, giggling and setting her newspaper aside. 

“And in eight months I will wish you a happy birthday, Wilde.” Richard stroked her little ears. He’d found her, her sister, and their mama four months ago, all shivering inside an old box by a dumpster. Clifton and Bronte had made excellent Christmas gifts for Inge and Tali. 

“And I’m wishing _you_ happy birthday right now, too,” said Tali. 

Just then, a customer came up to the counter – a blonde-haired lady with a big purple purse. 

“I’m looking for the collected poems of Oprah Winfrey,” she said. 

Tali looked at Richard quickly and said, “Your birthday present is waiting upstairs. From me and Inge.” 

Richard nodded his head in thanks as he made his way to the stairs, hearing Tali say patiently, “I’m not sure that Oprah Winfrey writes poetry, ma’am. But maybe I can turn you to Natasha Tretheway? She was Poet Laureate in 2014…”

Richard opened his front door, stepping out of the shop and into the tranquil privacy of his own home. He sighed with relief as he locked the door. 

“Happy birthday.” 

A pleasant, bass voice. From the kitchen. It sounded just like Mr. Moran. 

He turned around and – yes – standing in his kitchen was Mr. Moran, taller and broader and more dazzling than Richard had remembered. He realized only now that his memories were like photographs taken in bad lighting, all the colors dampened, the edges blurred. Mr. Moran’s hair was blonder, his eyes a more exquisite blue, his perfection something that couldn’t be contained in the boundaries of any one person’s memories. 

“This isn’t how I typically greet my clients,” Mr. Moran said apologetically, “but Tali had keys to your apartment, and she said to wait in here.” 

“That’s okay,” Richard said numbly. He had no idea what was going on, only that Mr. Moran standing there was the best gift anyone had ever given him in his life and ever would. 

He remembered their phone call on The Day on Fire, when Richard had finally gathered the wits to call him. 

_Hello?_

_Hi, Mr. Moran. This is Richard. Inge’s friend. From about three weeks ago. I-I was checking to see if you were okay._

_I’m fine, Richard. I’m doing very well. And you?_

_Yes, I’m okay –_

Then he’d heard a woman crying hysterically in the background, and another woman had shouted, “It’s done!”, and Mr. Moran had said, _I’m sorry, Richard. This isn’t an ideal time right now._

He’d hung up just like that, and Richard hadn’t had the guts to call him back later. 

And when Mr. Moran called him the day after, he hadn’t had the guts to answer. 

Nor when Mr. Moran had called again the day after that. 

Today Mr. Moran didn’t look like much of a Dom. He was wearing a stark white polo shirt, which revealed his muscular arms. He looked almost like a masseuse – er, masseur – especially with the massage table laid out in the center of Richard’s living room, and the row of essential oils displayed on his coffee table. 

Oh. 

“Er…” Richard had intended to say something, but no words formed. 

“I’m a masseur as well,” offered Mr. Moran. “Licensed in the state of New York since 2013.” 

He offered Richard a beam and then, stepping forward, a handshake. 

“Your friends decided that you need to relax on your birthday,” he continued. Richard marveled – just as he had the first time, over a month ago – at how warm and big Mr. Moran’s hand was. “And I’m here to help you do that.” 

Richard simply gaped at him. Again, he was trying to speak, but it just wasn’t happening. 

“I’m going to step out. You can undress to whatever extent you’d like, and then get beneath that white sheet.” He gestured to the massage table. “I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” 

“Yes, Mr. Moran,” said Richard, and then internally swore at himself, because his voice sounded so small, and he sounded like such an idiot. 

After Mr. Moran left, Richard made quick work of thanking the sweet gods of Friendship and Birthdays. He did a little jig. Then he tried to get his heartbeat under control. 

Okay. Focus. On undressing. 

He coughed back a nervous giggle and pulled his sweater over his head. He considered keeping his boxer briefs on, but in the end he decided to take off everything, because this would be the only time in his life when he could ever truthfully say he had been naked in the same room as Severin Moran. 

He shoved all of his clothes under his bed and then laid beneath the sheet on the massage table. He found the soft Bach that was drifting in from the shop comforting. His studio was dimly-lit, the curtains that normally opened onto the street drawn, and it smelled pleasantly of lavender. 

Mr. Moran must have set this all up before Richard arrived. He tried not to imagine Mr. Moran stepping around Richard’s apartment, touching all his things, because that was inexplicably arousing, and it was very, very important that Richard not get aroused right now. 

He envisioned a quick, pornographic image of Mr. Moran charging into the room, tearing away the sheet, and just fucking Richard while Richard was pinned down on his stomach. 

Then Richard swallowed it all down and promised himself – for his own sake – that he would be good. 

Mr. Moran knocked on the door before opening it a crack. The classical music from the store got louder. 

“Are you ready, Richard?” Mr. Moran’s voice was so soft. 

“Yes,” Richard called. 

The door opened wider and then was locked shut. They were alone in silence, and Richard thought suddenly, _I am going to make a fool of myself the moment his hands are on me._ He’d moan, or have to adjust his erection, or something equally unspeakable. 

Then Mr. Moran approached. He took a deep breath while squirting lotion onto his palm. Richard heard him rub his hands together, and then, just as Mr. Moran exhaled, he laid those hands between Richard’s shoulder blades. 

Every anxious thought exited Richard’s body on Mr. Moran’s exhalation. There was immediate contentment; immediate _goodness_ flowing from Mr. Moran to him, and Richard didn’t worry about anything. 

He’d planned on making small talk at first, asking about Mr. Moran’s dual careers, but now he couldn’t fathom spoiling this moment by making noise. 

That was what it was. Everything in the world – from the Unmasked Ones to the _New York Post_ to the classical music – was just noise, and the only thing that mattered was the sound of Mr. Moran’s deep breathing. 

And his soft touches. He began by stroking down Richard’s back, just lightly, as if introducing Richard’s skin to his. 

Then he leaned down and rubbed from his elbows upward, his forearms touching the whole of Richard’s back. 

Richard was having a lovely dream in which Mr. Moran was touching every inch of his body and it was simultaneously the most sensual and relaxing experience of his life. Mr. Moran’s big fingers were rubbing Richard’s earlobes, and Mr. Moran’s masculine scent overcame the scent of lavender, was all Richard inhaled.

Then Richard’s eyes flickered open and he realized it wasn’t a dream, he had dozed off for a mid-second, and Mr. Moran’s fingers were interwoven in his hair, giving him a scalp massage. It was better, so much better than a dream.

* * * *

There was something about Severin’s size and strength that made Severin think a lot – more than most people, more than most men – about how he ought to monitor himself. He was a licensed masseur. That meant he was here to benefit people through touch, through massage; he was not here to take advantage of the people who trusted him. 

Because he valued Richard’s trust, anyone’s trust - when they agreed to be alone in a room with him, unclothed, and believed that he would relax and help them. 

Which he would. 

Also, Richard’s skin was perfect. Which wasn’t the kind of thought Richard would want him to have, and it wasn’t the kind of thought _he_ wanted to have, but it was there. Richard’s skin was soft and unmarred except for a freckle on his left shoulder, and yes, Severin thumbed over that freckle, thought about kissing it – 

Stop. 

Deep breath. 

Stay calm. Stay professional. He was here to heal. 

Richard’s neck seemed so slim and sweetly delicate. The pads of Severin’s fingers brushed the soft dark hairs on the back of Richard’s neck, worked their way up to Richard’s scalp. His hair was as soft as his skin, it seemed impossible that someone should be so achingly _pleasant_ to touch – 

Stop. 

But Christ, it was overwhelming him. Richard’s little ears, all his freckles, the way his back moved as he breathed, the shadows cast over his skin from his jutting shoulder blades, his thinness. He was so small, lying prone on the table, so pliant and precious – Severin could so easily pick him up and arrange him in a more pleasurable – 

Stop. Stop. _Stop, fucking Christ._

Richard looked like he was supposed to be tasted. Licked. The rim of his ear, along his vertebrae, the sweet indentation of the small of his back. 

Fuck. He was supposed to touch Richard there. Actually touch him _there,_ kneed the plump curve of his ass, because this was a proper massage and massages had to feel balanced. With well-executed effleurage, Severin gradually made his way down Richard’s back. 

“Can I pull down your drape about three inches?” he asked, blood pounding through his veins. 

Richard stiffened; Severin felt it immediately. Richard was shy.

“Maybe not?” Richard said, and Severin exhaled in relief, tension leaving his own body. 

He worked his way back up, to Richard’s arms, employing petrissage on his upper traps, feeling the muscles loosen. He worked on keeping his own breath steady while never stopping his hands. He’d never performed a massage this difficult before. He wondered if it was ruining Richard’s experience. 

* * * *

Richard was floating on a cloud of bliss, a cloud made and fluffed and held up by a god of a man with holy hands. When Severin’s strong fingers finally slowed, ending his repeated long strokes down Richard’s back, Richard exhaled deeply, feeling heavy and light all at once. 

“That’s the end of the session,” Severin said, and the deepness of his voice was like a fine coffee, a luxury to listen to. “I’m going to leave the room. Take your time in getting up and getting dressed.” His hand was still resting on the center of Richard’s back. “I always suggest starting by wiggling your toes.” 

Richard would have giggled if he weren’t so relaxed. 

“Will you come back up before you go?” Richard asked. 

“Certainly.” 

A moment later, Severin opened the front door. No music drifted in; the shop was closed by now. 

It did indeed take Richard a few minutes – with toe wiggling – before he felt able to sit upright. When he did, he realized that of course Severin had to come back up; he wasn’t going to leave his massage table and oils behind. Feeling silly, Richard got dressed, and just as he was pulling on his socks there was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Richard called. 

“Back in your day clothes?” Severin raised his eyebrows, and Richard felt immediately embarrassed. He hadn't wanted Severin to see him in more casual clothing. 

“I – I thought – ” 

“If you want change into pajamas or something looser, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Severin said. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Richard said helplessly, but he went to the bathroom with a pair of pajamas anyway. 

When he came out – in the matching pair of plaid PJs that Tali had gotten him for his last birthday – Severin had two mugs of tea waiting on Richard’s kitchen table. Which meant he intended to stay for at least a few minutes longer, which was both surprising and enormously pleasing. And Richard found he liked being in his pajamas in front of Severin; it felt oddly intimate.

All he could focus on as he sat down was how big Severin’s hand looked in comparison to the mug he was holding. Those big hands had been all over Richard just minutes ago. He fought a shiver. 

“Have you had a good birthday so far?” Severin asked. 

Richard nodded, feeling shy. Severin wasn’t the type of person Richard was normally left alone with. Richard didn’t know what that meant, quite, only that it was true; Severin was too handsome, or too competent, or his hands were too big, or something, to be in Richard’s apartment for no reason besides Richard. 

And, well, Tali and Inge had paid him to be here. 

“Has your entire day been this relaxing?” Severin was incredibly patient, holding a one-sided conversation together with grace. 

“The actual celebration is tomorrow, since the shop will be closed,” said Richard. “We’re going out to dinner, me and some friends. I spent today book-shopping.” 

“You own a bookstore.” Severin was grinning. All of his teeth showed when he grinned. 

“I like all bookstores,” Richard said, looking down into his mug. 

“I see,” said Severin, and he shifted suddenly forward, which would normally be the kind of thing that Richard – that anyone – wouldn’t notice, but he was so hyper-aware of Severin that he nearly gasped. 

“The truth is,” Severin continued, thankfully oblivious, “I’m having tea with you so that I can give you a hard time.” 

“A hard time?” Richard asked, tilting his head. 

“Your – ” 

The chimes from the shop’s front door jingled. Richard set down his tea. 

“That must be Tali. She wants to see if I enjoyed her gift,” Richard said. “Do you mind if I go thank her?” 

“Not at all,” said Severin. Richard hurried down the stairs. 

The bookshop was entirely dark. His hand glossed over the light switch but didn’t actually flick it on. 

“Tali, thank you so much,” he said, looking around. He’d definitely heard the door open. 

There was shuffling from behind one of the massive bookcases. Someone was book browsing in the dark. Richard stepped to the end of the aisle, squinting into the shadows. 

“Tali, what are you – Oh!” 

Two massive hands grabbed him and shoved, hard, his entire body crashing against a bookcase. 

The back of his head narrowly missed banging against a shelf ledge, or the force probably would have killed him. He scrambled, pushing back, but the case was falling, and he was falling with it. 

“Richard!” He was distantly aware of Severin’s voice. 

Then pain, suddenly. Pain, everything pain – burning, horrible burning, an incendiary in his feet, and everything was dark and wet and buzzing, banging, ringing – 

There were sirens. There were arms, around him, and the pain throbbed, and he was sobbing into someone’s chest. 

This was the most horrible pain, they’d been drinking tea, this was the most horrible pain – 

Ragged breathing. His own. A shushing, a hushing, someone trying to soothe. Red lights through the shop’s glass door, and then nothing. 

Just the throbbing, and the fire. 


	4. Hospital

A hospital, of course. Nearly everyone knew the formula: The beeping heart monitor; the unknowable odor, as of alcohol just lightly covering an overarching scent of something deeply unpleasant, like corn oil or decay; the tenuous restraint of IVs in the skin; the frigid, fragile feeling of saline and prescriptions flowing intravenously within him. Morphine. A pain killer. That numbness. He’d known it before. Groggy rather than floating; too heavy to be pleasant, but pleasanter than what he’d feel without it.

He summoned the energy to open his eyes. His eyelids were lead weights. 

A woman was smiling down at him. Nurse. She was part of the formula. After trauma, this. 

He was not ready to call it trauma. A small thing had happened; he was waking now. 

He did not feel awake. 

“Good morning,” the nurse said, then chuckled. A big-bosomed woman, reminding him of his childhood nanny. “It’s not really morning, I mean. It’s three in the afternoon. Do you remember what happened to you, dear?” 

Yes. There were objects in his brain, and he remembered them perfectly, could muse over them as though considering the contents of a suitcase: A shadow, a stomping; the books, his feet, and everything dark. 

He slammed the suitcase shut. 

She replaced a nearly empty sack of fluids with another sack. Then he saw who was sprawled out on a visitor’s chair. 

Mr. Moran. His jawline was shadowed with scruff. All at once the room was scorching hot; sweat glued the scratchy hospital blanket to Richard’s suddenly-sensitized skin. It had taken Richard so much effort to turn his neck to see Mr. Moran that he felt no inclination to look away anytime soon. 

There was another person in the room. He’d forgotten. She’d asked a question. 

“I don’t remember much,” he said. He didn’t feel like explaining the suitcase; his mouth was full of dry cotton. 

“It’s all right now,” she soothed. “The doctor will be in with you shortly.” 

“How long has he been here for?” He intended to point at Mr. Moran but his hand didn’t rise. 

“Your husband hasn’t left your side since the operation,” she said. 

“Husband.” A note of skepticism before he could stop himself. 

She raised her eyebrows, and it looked like he was confirming something she’d suspected. 

“I noticed neither of you are wearing wedding rings,” she said, not particularly subtly. 

“We just got married,” Richard croaked. “We forget our rings – on the bathroom sink – sometimes.” 

_“He_ said you’d been married for years.” She snorted, but in a lighthearted way, as if assuring Richard that their secret was safe with her, and she left the room. 

Richard looked at Mr. Moran, who hadn’t woken up. 

Mr. Moran was a liar. That was a revelation. Kink consultant, masseur, amateur teller of untruths. His list was growing. 

Every day he spent with Mr. Moran felt like a new, unexpected twist of fate; finding that a flower had blossomed, unfolded its petals right in Richard’s palms. It was an unwise way to feel. Amateurish. 

Watching Mr. Moran sleep seemed voyeuristic, a kind of sensual pleasure even though Mr. Moran was fully dressed and didn’t look the least bit vulnerable. Just the opposite: He looked like a dozing lion seconds from pouncing. He was _big,_ his legs spread out – and there was something sensual and lewd about that, everything about his unconscious body language dominating and certain. 

He’d chained Richard up, once. 

“Mr. Brook.” A doctor entered the room, carrying the same clipboard the nurse had just brought out with her. 

“Hello,” squeaked Richard. 

For some reason he didn’t want the doctor to come any farther. She was going to give him the verdict and he didn’t want to hear it. Any of it. The verdict was trapped in the suitcase, and he didn’t want anyone else peeking in. 

“Hello.” Mr. Moran was suddenly up, alert as if he’d never been sleeping. He rose in a single fluid movement, stood beside Richard’s bed, and Richard felt comforted immediately. 

Richard wasn’t alone. He wouldn’t hear the verdict alone. 

“My name is Dr. Levine. I am your orthopedic surgeon,” she said. She was a big woman with thick arms and tied back hair with no flyaways. “Did Nurse Adams give you your X-rays?” 

“Er…”

“I have them right here.” Mr. Moran retrieved them from a briefcase on the floor. 

“All right. Let’s do this, then, shall we?” said Dr. Levine, rubbing her hands together. “First up, the overall picture.” 

She slipped one of the X-rays out and held it up. Even to Richard’s untrained eyes, it looked wrong: Little bones were cracked, and the worst of it…

“Your left ankle is broken the most severely,” she said. “Right now you have fifteen screws keeping you all together, along with several ligament anchors. We had to do extensive tendon repair. And here we have something fairly remarkable. Not a double, not a triple, not quadruple, but a _five time_ whammy – all five of your metatarsals are fractured in a neat split, right across. We’ve got a nasty open fracture.” 

Dr. Levine said all of this with a smile. After a look at Mr. Moran – Richard missed his expression – the smile slipped off and she cleared her throat. 

“Moving to the right side,” she said more somberly, “we have a broken ankle, again, although it’s not as severe. But unfortunately…”

Richard zoned out; too much morphine, too much bad news. In his head he was asking her questions, and she was answering them, but nothing was actually happening, he was just lying there. Fading. Mr. Moran smelled good. Smelling him was supremely nice. 

Someone was dimming the lights. Also nice. He giggled to himself and let it all go black. 

* * * *

When he awoke it was dark outside. The window’s view offered a brick wall. He couldn’t see the sky. 

“Mashed potatoes?” Mr. Moran was in a chair by Richard’s side. 

“You’re still here,” said Richard groggily. 

“Not going anywhere,” he said. “How are you feeling?” 

Richard thought about it. Thinking was hard. He was in quite a lot of pain. 

“They slowed down your morphine so that you’d wake up,” Mr. Moran said. 

“That was a bad idea,” said Richard, leaning back against his pillows. 

“You need to eat something,” said Mr. Moran. “Try to stay up just a few minutes, and then I’ll call one of the nurses in.” 

Mr. Moran pressed a button, raising Richard’s bed so that he could sit up. He was surprised to find not hospital food, but a takeout container full of mashed potatoes, collard greens, corn, and marinated steak. 

“Soul food from across the street,” said Mr. Moran. “I smuggled it in.” 

Richard looked at him wordlessly, his chest swelling with gratitude. He paused. The feeling of gratitude was enormous, washing through him. Not a proportional reaction to just one takeout meal. 

Then it flashed through his mind; he saw it with his inner eye. 

_“Who the hell are you?” An expert punch swung. A lion and a silhouette were fist fighting in the dark, the lion’s roar and fervor so bright he was like an anchor of light, glowing as the police sirens cawed nearer._

Kink consultant, masseur, inexpert liar, fist fighter. 

“You saved my life,” said Richard. “That – the intruder. He…he hurt me. You…”

“Shh,” said Mr. Moran. “You’ll have plenty of time to process it later. Eat up, now.” 

Richard pushed his tray away. 

“You saved my life,” he whispered. He blinked away tears, but they kept coming. 

“Shh.” But that only made it worse, because that was exactly the noise Mr. Moran had made as he’d held Richard, in the dark shop, before the EMTs came. In Richard’s mind he saw blue eyes looking down at him, as he was broken and cradled in Mr. Moran’s arms. He knew it was a false memory; his muddled head was full of those. It still made him tremble. 

Richard opened his arms. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know if Mr. Moran would give it to him. 

He did. Mr. Moran leaned over the bed and hugged Richard tight. 

“You – you saved my life,” Richard gasped. “I didn’t ask you to do that. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“It’s okay, Richard,” said Mr. Moran. “Just shhh.” He rubbed Richard’s back. 

Richard shook his head into Mr. Moran’s shirt, and he realized now that Mr. Moran didn’t smell great, exactly, he smelled like someone who’d been sitting in a hospital chair for ages. 

“You didn’t have to stay here with me the whole time,” Richard said. “Tali or Inge or Todd would have come.” 

“Tali and Inge have been here twice,” said Mr. Moran. “They brought me a few books from the shop. And Todd said he’ll pick you up when you’re discharged.” 

“You could have left,” Richard persisted. 

“I knew you were going to wake up eventually,” said Mr. Moran. “And I thought…I thought it might be like this.” 

That Richard might cry. And Mr. Moran had wanted – he’d wanted to be here anyway. He’d planned on holding Richard like this. 

Which just made Richard cry more, because this was the nicest – the kindest – anyone had been to him, ever, and it wasn’t that people weren’t kind to him, it was just that they weren’t _this_ kind, no one was, to anyone. 

“Thank you,” Richard breathed. “Thank you, Mr. Moran.” 

To his surprise, Mr. Moran chuckled, his torso shaking against Richard. 

“Come on now,” he whispered, leaning down to whisper directly in Richard’s ear. “I saved your life. The least you can do is call me Severin.” 

* * * *

It turned out that Richard actually _had_ asked questions when Dr. Levine had first come in, although he remembered nothing. One of those questions had apparently been when he would be released, and the answer had apparently been “tomorrow,” and everyone seemed very surprised the next day when Richard was shocked to find he was going home. 

“It’s okay,” Mr. Moran said quickly, because Mr. Moran always had assurances. Inexpert liar. “I made arrangements for you – Todd’s driving here right now.” 

“I wish Tali and Inge weren’t working,” Richard said, even though Tali was his own employee and he was glad she’d kept the shop running. He felt skittish and fidgety at the thought of Todd seeing him like this; Todd liked to stick his knife in the wounds that were already open. Broken people were his caviar. 

And Richard couldn’t even fidget the way he wanted to; he wasn’t supposed to move his legs at all, except to elevate them. The dual casts went up to his knees. Three to five month recovery time.

He didn’t want to be alone in a car with Todd. 

Mr. Moran’s phone went off, the ringtone the low humming of a violin. Richard was struck with the sudden image of Mr. Moran going through his phone’s settings and choosing that ringtone in particular, that inoffensive sound, and it made Richard’s heart quiver. It was pleasant and baffling to imagine Mr. Moran doing ordinary things. Todd’s ringtone, Richard knew, was of a dog barking, an insistent, punching sound rather like the cuckoo clock he’d nailed to Richard’s kitchen wall. 

“He’s here,” Mr. Moran said. Richard was already in his wheelchair; the nurses had put him in it. “Are you ready?” 

Richard took one last glance at his hospital bed, at the little muted TV in the corner that they’d never figured out how to turn off. At Mr. Moran’s hand, on the handle of the wheelchair. Big-fingered, rough-skinned; Richard had spent three days in a row with Mr. Moran, and in minutes they’d be going separate ways. 

This was the real reason he felt like someone had scraped something out of his chest and emptied him – why there was a queasy, homesick feeling in his gut, and why he’d be the perfect walking wound for Todd to savor. 

Richard tore his eyes from Mr. Moran’s hand. He didn’t like that they couldn’t walk side-by-side. Although, of course, if they could, they wouldn’t have spent half a week in a hospital together. 

“I’m ready,” Richard said. Swallowed. Mr. Moran wheeled him down the white corridor. The nurses giggled as Mr. Moran waved goodbye, because everyone was in love with him. 

Richard was the rule, not the exception. 


	5. Knowing Terror

Todd illegally parked the car in front of the shop.

“Why is there a line of people coming from Walter’s?” Richard asked. 

“Didn’t you book Annalise Pope for this afternoon?” Todd asked. His car smelled like old Cheetos and hot rubber. 

“No one _canceled?”_ Richard asked. “But – ” 

And then he stopped, because he wasn’t sure what his broken leg and semi-broken heart had to do with Annalise Pope’s reading. Annalise was a professor at Columbia University, fluent in Old Norse, and had written a book about the Iraq War ten years ago called _Odin’s Sprog._ Everyone loved _Odin’s Sprog._ Annalise Pope had singlehandedly made poetry cool again, and over 3,000 people on Facebook were ‘interested’ in this afternoon’s event. The back room, where the reading would take place, was the size of a living room. 

A line of hipsters and college kids curled around the shop, sprawling down the block, well over a hundred in all. The shop was going to be at full capacity, and Richard hadn’t taken a shower in days. He hadn’t shaved, and he was in pajamas, and he really didn’t want Annalise Pope or anyone holding a copy of _Odin’s Sprog_ to see him. 

“Can I borrow your sunglasses?” he asked. Todd was wearing aviators. 

“No,” said Todd. “Also, fuck.” Todd had the somewhat sinister habit of cursing in monotone. “I just realized – your hot cousin forgot to put the wheelchair in my car.” 

“Cousin?” Richard repeated blankly. 

Todd looked at him like he was stupid. “Wheeled you from the hospital, about eight feet tall, military type, I slipped my number into his back pocket when you weren’t looking?” 

“You did?” Richard said, and his heart sunk even lower than it already was. Todd was gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as Severin, but more gorgeous than Richard. Then he shook his head and focused. “That wheelchair wasn’t mine. I’m getting a chair delivered next week.” 

“How are you supposed to go without a wheelchair _for a week?”_ Todd asked. “How the hell am I supposed to get you inside?” 

Todd’s icy blue eyes seared into him, accusatory, as if Richard had been supposed to anticipate all of this. Richard felt betrayed, not by Todd but by his doctors, who surely should have given him some better plan as to how to navigate without his legs. 

His lower lip wobbled. 

“Oh, Christ, would you stop that?” Todd sighed, unclicking his seatbelt. “That act doesn’t work on me.” 

“Not everything is an _act,”_ Richard said, cursing himself because he couldn’t stop his voice from shaking. He couldn’t let anyone outside see him crying. 

“I’ll carry you in,” Todd said. “God knows you’re light enough.” 

“Maybe I could stay at your place until the event is over?” Richard suggested. He wanted to hide from the world today, possibly forever. 

“No, thanks,” Todd said. “You got your ankles broken, you deal with the consequences.” 

Richard bit his bottom lip to keep himself from crying as Todd exited the car and went around to the passenger’s side, making quick work of carrying Richard bridal style. 

“Wave to your customers,” Todd said as he brought Richard to the sidewalk. He shouldered through the crowd, Richard closing his eyes to the stares that followed them. 

The chiming of the front door bell made him flinch. Memories peeked out from the recesses of his mind, but he shut them tight away and opened his eyes. 

The shop was dizzyingly crowded, the counter full of cheese plates and plastic wine glasses. Tali waved at him from behind it, beaming. 

Richard had thought it’d be comforting to be home again, surrounded by his familiar books, but the bookcases seemed ominous now, too tall and too obviously deadly. He wondered who had lifted the case that had fallen on him; it was back in place now like it had never almost killed someone. 

Then he saw yellow tape, and realized that it was roped off. **CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS,** the tape read, and people were stopping to take pictures of it. 

There was a police officer steering them away. The shop was packed, and it was difficult for people to distinguish between what was and wasn’t a taped-off crime scene. 

Richard felt like he was dreaming. 

“Yo, it’s Annalise Pope,” Todd said on his way to the stairs. He jerked Richard in the direction of the back room. A wall of glass gave a view of his little garden, and sure enough, Annalise Pope was standing alone back there like a live art installation, free for observation, her silvery hair flowing down to her butt. She was smoking what looked like two cigarettes at once. It looked disturbingly like she was flicking the ashes into Richard’s koi pond. 

“Just take me upstairs, please,” Richard said softly. 

“Richard, I’ll come up to see you in a minute!” he heard Tali exclaim. He felt rude but he ignored her. He wished for the first time in his life that his shop was miles and miles away from his apartment. And that his apartment was miles and miles away from any other living being. 

* * * *

“So I guess I’m just gonna go now,” Todd said. He’d helped Richard onto his bed, elevating his legs with some pillows. He’d put a glass of water and the pharmacy’s bag of prescriptions on Richard’s bedside table. “Tali said she’d bring you lunch and dinner.” 

Richard nodded. He didn’t want to speak up, but he had to, because Todd was his only male friend. 

“I haven’t had a shower since before the hospital,” he said. 

“That explains a lot,” said Todd. 

Richard stared at him. 

Todd raised his eyebrows. “Is there something you want me to do about it?” 

“The doctor said that I should sponge bathe.” 

“For how long?” 

“The whole time. I can’t get my cast wet.” 

“Christ.” 

Richard pulled at his sleeve. “I feel pretty gross.” 

“I’m not going to sponge bathe you,” Todd said flatly. 

“I have arms!” Richard said. “I can do it myself. Just… I need some soap.” 

Todd sighed dramatically. “Here we go, then.” 

* * * *

Ten minutes later, Richard had taken off his shirt and was sitting half-clothed in an empty bathtub, his underarms frothy with soap. (Todd had stared at him unnervingly the whole time he’d scrubbed.) 

They both realized simultaneously that they weren’t sure how he was supposed to wash off. It was going to take a lot more than one bucket to rinse everything away. And he was in the bathtub, so how was Todd supposed to refill the bucket? 

“My phone’s by your foot. Can you look up how we’re supposed to do this?” Richard asked. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” Todd said. “Just – here – ” 

He dumped the bucket unceremoniously over Richard’s head. 

“You’re getting water over me!” Richard yelled, eyes squeezed shut. 

“That’s what’s supposed to happen!” 

“Not like _that.”_

“Here – ” Todd turned on the spigot, piping hot. 

“Todd!” Richard jumped to avoid the water, banging his cast into the wall. Pain throbbed through him; he gasped, tears welling in his eyes. “Could you please turn that off?” 

“You are such a _baby.”_ Todd nevertheless complied, Richard still wheeling from the pain. 

“You – you can just go, Todd,” Richard said softly. “I’ll figure out the rest myself.” 

“How are you going to get back out of the bath?” 

“I’ll figure it out.” 

Todd shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

Richard listened for Todd’s fading footsteps. Then the front door opened, briefly letting in the sounds from the poetry reading below. Annalise Pope’s voice was gravelly and cool. When the door clicked shut, Richard wondered if Todd had remembered to lock it. 

Deep breaths. 

He had no idea how he was going to do this. 

He didn’t even care about getting the rest of himself clean anymore, he just wanted the soap off of his skin and to be back in bed. He wanted a painkiller, even though he hated those. 

And he wouldn’t, but God, he wanted to cry. He’d never felt so pathetic. 

He took a deep breath and pushed himself up, pressing hard against the porcelain sides of the bath. He managed to haul himself over the bathtub, but he crash landed on the floor. 

The pain that thrummed from his toes up his legs was so excruciating that at first he failed to process it. His only bewildered thought was: _I can’t possibly be in this much pain._

But he was, it was happening, and the only redeeming aspect of this situation was that, now that he was on the floor, his head was leaning against a towel, and he saw no reason why he should move right away. The soap had already dried to his skin; rushing wouldn’t make it better. He was just going to lie here until the pain faded. 

And he wasn’t going to cry, even though his heart was in his stomach. Even though his stomach felt like jelly, something queasy and soured. Even though Todd had been precisely as awful as he’d expected, and there were about fifty people downstairs sharing a lovely evening together, emphasizing his own loneliness. 

His phone vibrated. It was inches away from his hand. 

He considered not answering it. At the last moment he decided to reach for it, slowly, and when he saw Severin’s name on the caller ID he picked up. 

“Hello?” He was smiling already. Severin calling him meant Severin had been thinking of him, and he liked that enormously. 

“Hi, Richard. I’m just checking up on you.” Pleasure shivered down Richard’s spine. He was beaming up at the ceiling. 

“How are you feeling?” Severin continued. 

Richard was alone on his bathroom floor, shirtless and skin reddened from the irritating, dried soap that covered him, his underarms stinging, his right cast damp, his legs throbbing, his heart aching – 

“I feel great,” Richard chirped. 

“Really,” Severin said, all sarcasm but somehow good-natured. “I want you to let me know if you need anything, all right? Even if it’s just an ear to listen.” 

“That’s okay, I’m fine – ” 

“That’s not a one-time offer,” Severin interrupted. “If you wake up at three A.M. and you want someone with you, you’re going to call me, okay? You’re going to call me anytime, for any reason, and you’re not going to hesitate if you need me.” 

Richard froze. He hadn’t heard that tone of voice from Severin in months. He recognized it, though, because it was the voice Severin had used in his so-called spa, his dungeon, during their private session. That was Severin’s Dom voice, all soothing authority. 

This was an order. 

“Yes,” Richard whispered smally. “Th-thank you, Severin.” 

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” said Severin. “I’ll talk to you soon, Richie.” 

That shortening of his name made him purr, purr, purr, and he wanted Severin on the line for a little longer, wanted Severin to keep speaking, but he said goodbye, because he was too exhausted to think of any talking points. And then he held his phone to his heart and closed his eyes, and, on the bathroom floor, he fell asleep. 

* * * *

He awoke to complete silence, his bathroom light shining florescent bright and making him wonder how he’d ever fallen asleep. He wiped crust from the corners of his eyes. His arms felt tight – his skin from the waist up felt like it was too small for his body. 

He’d never rinsed off the soap. 

His mouth was dry, and his legs were aching. He pushed himself up and checked his phone: It was 1:53 in the morning. 

He wondered why Tali hadn’t come to check on him. And had she remembered to lock the shop up? 

An irrational knot formed in his stomach. He knew there was no reason to be afraid, but he felt oddly as though he weren’t alone, as if someone was waiting just outside his apartment. 

He wanted to turn on the bathtub tap and clean the soap off with a towel, but he felt the unreasonable certainty that making noise would put him in danger. 

He inhaled, sharp and quick. 

He’d heard something. He wasn’t sure what. 

_Rich, you’re being ridiculous. You know there’s no one down there._

Did he know that? Yes, of course he did. He would prove it to himself. He’d crawl to the front door and open it, and look down into his dark, empty shop. Because no one was there, and there was nothing to be afraid of. 

Getting on his hands and knees was awkward and taxing; he was sure he looked like a bowlegged crab struggling in soft sand. Nevertheless he tried to move as quietly as possible, the same irrational fear continuing to shackle him. He pulled himself to the bathroom doorway, his phone tight in his hand. 

There was a sound. 

He wasn’t sure what kind of sound, just that he’d heard something. And his entire apartment was dark outside the bathroom. He’d never been bothered by the dark before, but dread overcame him. He was a moving target, vulnerable and virtually helpless. 

The sound, again. Something was downstairs. 

Or had that been in his own head? 

No, he’d heard something. He couldn’t say what, just a noise. Pipes? The heat turning on? 

_“Meow.”_

“AHH!” Richard leaped and his right cast banged into the doorway. He howled and bit his wrist, rocking himself gently as his kitten Wilde peered back at him with her great big green eyes. 

She booped his nose with her paw, clearing asking, “Where’s my dinner?” He spotted his other cat, Poe, sound asleep on his armchair. 

“Sorry, Wilde,” Richard whispered, drawing a finger to his lips. “I need you to be quiet, okay?” 

_“Meow.”_

“No, Wilde. Shh.” He clutched his phone harder and made to crawl toward the front door. There were noises besides the ones Wilde was making, he was sure of it. 

Or maybe there weren’t noises at all, and he was just delusional. Todd had called him unstable plenty of times. He tended to think Todd was the one deserving of that title, but maybe Todd was right. 

The chimes downstairs jingled as someone opened the shop door. 

The sound was so real, ringing out so clearly, that Richard realized everything he’d heard before had been a terror-induced hallucination. 

And that someone was in his shop at 2 A.M. 

A fight-or-flight response kicked in, his pain numbed as adrenaline pounded through his veins. Wilde was just as alert, stiff-necked and looking with wide eyes at the door. 

Richard grasped his phone with a shaking hand. He dialed 9-1-2. 

Fuck. His fingers were sweaty; they’d slipped. Fuck. Fuck. There were footsteps, loud ones, a man wearing boots, shit, shit – 9-1-1-1- FUCK. 

He clicked ‘recent calls.’ He clicked ‘Severin.’ His heart was leaping out of his throat. At the very least, someone would hear his last moments. Evidence in court. 

Low violins sounded outside his apartment door. Wilde leaped in the air, but a hesitant relief washed over Richard. That was Severin's ringtone.

The violins stopped. 

“Richie?” 

Richard heard Severin’s voice from his phone and from behind the door, and all at once the adrenaline drained out of him. He dropped the phone. 

“Richie, Tali gave me a key. Can I come in?” Severin said. 

“Please!” Richard called. 

The door opened, and he was in Severin’s arms in a second. 

He couldn’t see Severin, couldn’t see anything – he was sobbing too hard. It was shock-sobbing, the aftereffects of adrenaline. He’d really believed a stranger had broken into his shop. 

“Richard, why are you crying?” Severin asked. “Are you hurt? Richard – what’s going on?” 

“I – I – I – I – ” He couldn’t speak, it was too much, he could only focus on the reassuring solidity of Severin’s torso, his strong arms pulling Richard in. Richard worked on steadying his breath. “I thought I heard something, and then the chimes rang out, just like before, and… I was being stupid.” 

“Oh.” It was a knowing ‘oh,’ like Severin understood, understood all of it, almost as if he’d been here in the minutes just before his actual arrival. “You weren’t being stupid, Richard.” He rubbed Richard’s back. “That’s called trauma. That’s why I came. I thought something like this might happen. And I’m sorry I’m the one who scared you.” 

Richard looked up at him, wiping his eyes. His vision was still blurry, but he could see Severin’s gaze, intent and calm. 

“Why did you come?” Richard asked. “Why did you come here at two in the morning?” 

“Tali said she came up to see you at six o’clock and at midnight to bring you some meals. When she peeked in at six, she saw the bathroom light on, so she hurried out, thinking you needed privacy. But then at midnight the bathroom light was still on, and you weren’t responding to her, so she called me. Todd apparently told her you were fine, but she was scared you weren’t okay,” said Severin. He added softly, “And I’m glad I came. Look how worked up you were, Richie. Why didn’t you call me sooner?” 

His touches were so gentle and calming. He was stroking Richard’s arm, and Richard leaned into him, taking in his warmth and delicious scent. 

“The pain wore me out. I only woke up a little while ago, and when I did I started… I got scared right away,” said Richard. He grimaced. “I must seem like a child to you.” 

“No. You don’t.” Severin said it so sternly that Richard had trouble disbelieving him. “I know exactly what terror feels like. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before. But tell me – why is your skin so sticky?” 

Richard froze. He’d forgotten, weirdly, that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His cheeks flamed; he was almost certain that Severin was wielding a six-pack beneath his tight T-shirts, and he wondered what Severin thought of someone who chose yoga as their workout of choice. 

“I fell asleep halfway through a bath,” Richard said, feeling even more foolish. 

Severin laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, boy. I never should have let Todd take you out of my hands. Is he always so careless with you?” 

“Always,” Richard said honestly, which made Severin laugh again. 

“Come on. I’m going to clean you up.” 

Severin said ‘come on,’ but he picked Richard up before Richard could respond. Todd had carried Richard easily enough, but in Severin’s arms he felt like nothing more than a feather, so easily handled. It did things to him – lovely, fluttery things. 

Severin set him down on the bathroom mat, slowly and gently. 

“I can do this myself,” Richard protested as Severin turned on both spigots, testing the water to make sure it was the right temperature. 

“If you want me to leave, I will,” said Severin. 

Richard kept his mouth shut. 

“Is there something wrong with your water heater?” Severin asked. “The water’s piping hot.” 

“It’ll cool down after a moment,” Richard explained. 

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” 

Richard shrugged. He owned his apartment and his shop, which he was enormously proud of. But that hadn’t automatically made him an adequate handyman, much to his own disappointment. When something went wrong nowadays, he tended to ignore it if it was anything short of the roof caving in. 

Severin wet a hand towel and then brought it to Richard’s shoulder. Before he made contact – the towel a centimeter away from Richard’s skin – Richard shivered violently. 

“Is this all right?” Severin asked. 

“Please,” said Richard. He looked down; it was embarrassing how much the simplest touch from Severin affected him so deeply. But he could smell the memory of massage oils, feel the ghosts of Severin’s hands on him. 

Richard closed his eyes, trying to distract himself from the warm dampness of the towel, Severin’s hand separated only by that material. 

“You said you knew terror,” Richard said. He swallowed. “Can I…can I ask what you meant?” 

Severin took the towel away and rinsed it in the bath, wringing it out and restarting the process. Richard’s left shoulder was free of soap residue now, and felt clean and refreshed for it. 

“Of course you can,” said Severin casually. “I used to work for the CIA.” 

Richard’s eyes went wide. 

“You were a CIA agent?” he repeated dumbly. 

“You’d be surprised by how few people believe you when you say you’ve retired from that gig.” Severin winked. “But yes, I was. And I knew terror. And now I’ve restarted my life in New York, and everything I do is for pleasure, not violence. Not fear. Never again.” 

Richard simply watched him as he ran the towel down Richard’s neck, to his chest, in circular movements. When he reached Richard’s soft belly, Richard gasped, his skin sensitive. The touch felt incredibly intimate, and against his own will – very much against it – he felt his cock swell in his pants. 

Maybe Severin wouldn’t have noticed, or maybe he would have, but it hardly mattered because Richard immediately gave himself away by looking straight down between his legs. 

He stiffened, forcing himself to look up and gauge Severin’s reaction. 

For a moment Severin said nothing, his expression inscrutable. His face was so handsome that Richard marveled each time he looked at it, even as he was waiting in a state of anxiety. 

Severin finished his bathing, rinsed Richard’s towel, and laid it out against the bathtub to dry. He turned back to Richard. 

“Now let me take you to bed.” His voice was pure innocence, but his eyes were sultry and knowing, holding a private joke. Richard couldn’t speak – could hardly breathe. He let Severin lift him again. 

Severin set him down on the mattress, positioning pillows behind Richard’s back and beneath his feet. Severin worked like a nurse – was even more efficient, reading Richard’s thoughts, anticipating his needs, manhandling him like he was nothing. 

Oh, God. His hard-on wasn’t fading anytime soon. 

"Are you leaving now?" Richard finally managed to say.

“Not a chance,” said Severin. “I don’t want a repeat of before. I’ll stay here with you.” 

He reached out and took Richard’s hand, sitting on the edge of Richard’s bed. 

“I told you that I’m a former CIA agent both because you asked and because I want you to feel safe,” Severin said. “I’m excellent in hand-to-hand combat, and frankly, I would be perfectly happy to use one of your kitchen knives in a gun fight. I’m confident I’d come out the better in any such scenario. Not that we’ll ever have to find out.” He smiled reassuringly. “Between me and the police officers stationed outside, you couldn’t be safer.” 

He reached out to stroke Richard’s hair, which hardly seemed fair, because Richard _knew_ Severin had seen his erection, must know what these little, soft touches were doing to him. 

Then Richard jolted and said, “What do you mean – the police outside?” 

Severin cocked his head. “Didn’t anyone tell you? There are three police officers outside. When I gave my statement at the hospital, they told me that they’d be here for the foreseeable future, keeping an eye on things. And when I came here tonight, one of them stopped me until I showed her my I.D.” Severin smiled softly. “I put myself down as your emergency contact, so I was in her file. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Richard wanted to dwell on that – Severin, writing his own phone number, not out of politeness but out of a sincere desire to help Richard if he needed it. But Richard shook the thought out of his head and said, “There are break-ins in Brooklyn all the time. Why would the police keep tabs on my shop?” 

Severin paused. “No one…told you?” 

“I didn’t do much after I left the hospital,” Richard said. “The only person I talked to was Todd.” 

“Ah,” said Severin. “Well, we’ll talk about it in the morning.” 

He was so bad at lying that Richard wanted to laugh. He was feigning nonchalance, so obviously covering something up. 

“Should I feed your cats? They’re staring at us,” said Severin. 

“Yes, please,” said Richard, but he wasn’t going to be distracted so easily. “Why are the police outside?” 

“It’s non-urgent information,” Severin said. “I’d really rather tell you in the morning. You’ll sleep better if it’s not one of the last things you hear before you dream.” 

Severin got up. Richard was going to tell him where the cat food was, but Wilde and Poe led him straight to the right cabinet. Smart kitties. 

“I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t know,” Richard exclaimed. “Please, just tell me.” 

Severin sighed. After he gave the cats their food – and two quick scratches behind the ears – he returned to the bed and took Richard’s hand. It wasn’t an amorous gesture; it was protective. 

“I kept the man who broke into your shop restrained until the police came,” Severin said, “so they were able to bring him in for questioning.” 

“And…?” Richard prompted. 

“The man was a skilled martial artist,” said Severin. Severin looked away, as if remembering. “The way he fought…it was strange. It was obviously a unique style, but not one I’d ever seen before. Not that it matters now.” 

“Why doesn’t it matter?” 

“At the police station, just before they handcuffed him to his interrogation table, he…assaulted an officer. And got ahold of the officer’s gun,” said Severin. 

“No,” Richard whispered. “He – he’s free, then? He escaped.” 

Severin shook his head. “The only person he used the gun on was himself.” 

Richard gasped, letting go of Severin’s hand. He said nothing for a long moment, simply stared in front of him as if unseeing. 

Then he shook his head. “I don’t understand.” 

“Neither do the police. It shook them up, even with everything they must see in this city. It just doesn’t make sense… So they’ve decided to keep a protective force outside the shop, just in case there’s… Just in case,” Severin finished uncertainly. 

“I still don’t understand,” Richard said. “Why – why would - ? I don’t – I don’t get it.” 

“No one does. But they’re investigating,” Severin softly. 

“You worked for the CIA,” said Richard. “Why would someone do something like that?” 

Severin paused. “I… I have seen things like that, before. But what I used to do has nothing in common with anything that happens in this city.” 

“You’ve seen criminals kill themselves?” Richard said. 

“Rather than be interrogated? Yes, I have. And it was always because they were working for someone else – someone they were loyal to. Very loyal to,” said Severin. He straightened up. “But again: The criminals in this city have nothing to do with the terrorists I questioned. The rules are different, it’s a different game. So don’t worry about this too much. I’m sure the man was just mentally ill.” 

He swept a hand over Richard’s hair, and Richard clung to his hand, this time. 

“Please don’t leave,” he whispered. Severin had turned some of the apartment lights on, but the world felt incredibly dark. He wanted dawn to come. 

“I already told you I wouldn’t,” Severin said. “I’m going to keep you safe, Richard. That’s why I came here, and I’m not going to leave until you tell me to.” 

Richard squeezed his hand in response. They stayed like that in silence until Richard’s stomach growled. 

“Tali said she left your meals in the fridge,” said Severin. “I’ll warm something up for you.” 

“Thank you,” said Richard, then he caught Severin yawning on his way to the kitchen. “I – I think you should get some sleep, after we eat.” 

“You should sleep, too,” said Severin. “Your body needs the rest right now.” 

Richard said nothing, but somehow, like always, Severin read his thoughts. 

“You don’t need to keep guard,” he said. “I’m a light sleeper – I sleep like a soldier in a warzone, frankly. I’ll be awake long before anything might happen.” 

Richard nodded, and then another thought popped into his mind. “Where will you sleep, Severin?” 

“Where would you like me to sleep?” Severin asked. “I can find shut eye on a bed of cinder blocks. I’m not exactly high maintenance.” 

Richard smiled. “My bed is more than big enough for two people. As long as you’re okay with pushing Wilde and Poe off their side. You might make mortal enemies with them.” 

Severin grinned, looking down at the cats. “Sorry, guys. That offer’s too good to resist.” 

* * * *

Richard doubted he would find sleep. He _was_ tired despite the day-long nap he’d taken, and Severin had given him a pain reliever before bed. But Richard’s thoughts were racing fast, and now that he had noticed the police cars outside his shop, he felt doubly unnerved. Cops were precious resources, and the NYPD wouldn’t waste two cars’ worth on Richard unless they felt it was worth it. 

But Severin was right beside him. Richard had been repositioned, so that he was between Severin and the window, Severin the closest one to the door. In the darkness, listening to Severin’s deep, rhythmic breathing, Richard allowed himself to marvel at what a simple pleasure Severin’s sheer size was: He sunk into Richard’s mattress, all muscle. Richard believed Severin could bring a knife to a gun fight and win. He believed Severin was capable of nearly anything. 

Despite himself, that was a reassuring thought. And with reassurance came a surrender to his exhaustion. Finally, just as the sun started to rise, came sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I have a few things to say.  
> 1\. Thank you for reading!  
> 2\. If you haven't figured this out by now, this is as close to original fiction that fanfiction can get before it's just original fiction, so I hope you can bear with me.  
> 3\. If you are a lurking lurker who has been lurking, please know that comments are my one and only motivator for writing - aka releasing chapters sooner.  
> 4\. SEXY THINGS HAPPEN IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. I really, really wanted to get to the sexy bits in this one, but there was too much ground I felt I had to cover first.
> 
> Okay! Thank you again for reading!


	6. The Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, guys! I'm touched. Chapter 7 should be up in a jiffy.

He awoke to the sunlight pouring into the window and the scent of spring’s imminent arrival. It was his first time waking up to birdsong since autumn. For a few precious moments this was what he processed before the pain kicked in. 

He remembered abruptly: _I’m broken._

A heaviness weighed on his chest – literal, not metaphorical, and it soothed him. There was warmth, and the low, steady breathing of someone sleeping next to him. He hadn’t woken up next to someone in ages. He had never really liked the sensation; somehow waking up next to a still-sleeping Todd had always filled him with an aching loneliness. 

_Did I let Todd into my bed last night?_ He almost didn’t dare to think it, but the medication made his memory muddy, and the details of yesterday were blurry at best. Todd had taken him home…

He opened his eyes. 

The arm slung over his chest was definitely not Todd’s. Too muscular, too tanned…

He turned his head and almost kissed Severin Moran. 

Severin’s perfect face was so close that Richard’s eyes couldn’t focus on it. Their lips were millimeters away from each other’s. The slim space between them tickled Richard; it was electrified with the potential of a kiss. How easy it would be to nudge forward and take it. 

Richard didn’t like taking kisses, much, though. He liked when they were taken, and he had no illusions that Severin was interested in doing any taking from Richard. 

Richard stayed still, praying that Severin wouldn’t wake. He remembered now: Severin taking off his shirt, folding it neatly on the armchair, and turning out the lights. He’d fallen asleep far on the other side of the mattress, his back to Richard. Now his knees were curled up against Richard’s thighs, his entire body like a protective blanket. 

God. He was so close. The potential kiss was sending sparks against Richard’s mouth. It would be polite to look away, to return to simply enjoying Severin’s breath against his skin, but he couldn’t do it. The proximity of their lips was magnetic; he couldn’t break the hold. 

Severin opened his eyes, offering a blur of Richard’s favorite shade of blue. There was a mid-second flash of vulnerability as Severin took in Richard’s face. It was subtle: Just a slight lack of a clarity, a stress between Severin’s brows. Richard wanted to freeze that mid-second and keep it. He’d never glimpsed any sign of fragility in Severin before. 

Then Severin was full-Severin again, nothing vulnerable about him, and he didn’t move away. He smiled, and with a leaping heart Richard could tell that he was also enjoying the tingling, ticklish sensation of their lips not-quite-touching. 

They stayed like that, nearly kissing, too long for either of them to deny accountability. 

There was a knock on the door. Severin rose, wearing a sensual, sleepy half-smile. He took his time getting to the door, first slipping his shirt back on (Richard watched every moment of this – the arch of Severin’s back, the movement of his shoulder blades), then raising his hands together in the air and stretching like a cat, standing on the balls of his feet. (Richard watched every moment of this, cherishing each inch of him, from the crack of his knuckles to the briefly revealed heels of his bare feet.) 

When he swung open the door, Inge beamed at him, her blonde hair swept up in a loose bun. She was in a sweatshirt and gauchos, her standard yoga instructor uniform. In her hand was a picnic basket. She turned around and called down the stairs, “You owe me five!”, then waltzed into the apartment. 

“Good morning, Richie!” she said. “Good morning, Severin. It’s nice to see you again.” 

She gave no sign that she had met Severin during a kink session, instead setting her basket on the kitchen counter, taking out little jam jars and a bread loaf. 

“Hello, Inge. You owe whom five?” Severin asked, closing the door. 

“Tali. She didn’t think you’d spend the night. I thought you would.” Inge giggled and added, “How are you feeling, Rich? I got your favorite goat cheese.” 

“I feel peachy,” Richard lied. He desperately had to pee, drink water, and get to his prescription bottles, and he had no idea how to accomplish any of this. 

Wilde and Poe were purring around Inge’s ankles. As she got them their breakfast, Severin said, “This is really nice of you, Inge.” 

“You should see the downstairs,” Inge said. “After everyone heard about Richard’s accident, they spent last night writing him cards until closing time. You have quite a few letters and gifts waiting for you, popular man,” she added to Richard. “Annalise Pope wants to hire a caretaker for you.” 

“I don’t need gifts,” he said blankly. “Or a caretaker.” He’d been embarrassed when everyone had seen him in the shop; now he was embarrassed that he hadn’t been more sociable. 

“You just broke two ankles. Of course you needs gifts, and a lot of them,” Inge said, lighting his stove and getting out two pans. She knew his kitchen as if it were her own. “And we’ll discuss the caretaker thing tonight. I have to go to work in thirty minutes, but I wanted to see you as soon as possible. And you, Severin – are you taking care of Richie for now?” 

“I’m trying,” said Severin. 

“He is,” squeaked Richard. “He’s really helped me.” 

“You better be,” said Inge. “Richard is precious to us all.” 

Severin looked at Richard and smiled. Richard covered his face in self-consciousness. 

Inge made everyone vegetable omelets, Severin helping her toast Richard’s favorite bread and scoop out fresh melon. Richard felt oddly lonely, watching them be useful from across the apartment while he lay helplessly in bed, his bladder near to bursting. 

Inge gobbled her breakfast up before Severin had even finished clearing off Richard’s bedside table so that Richard could eat. 

“I’m sorry, guys – I have to dash,” she said. “I can’t be late again. See you tonight, Richie!” 

“Bye!” Richard called after her. Severin waved at her as she left, then closed the front door. 

And locked it. 

“Your friends are too nice,” said Severin. He stepped toward the bed. “And I mean that: _Too_ nice. I thought she’d never go.” 

“What…?” Richard started, gasping as Severin picked him up with no ado. 

“Before this happens,” Severin said, Richard having no idea what he was talking about, “you should know that I have seen everything and literally nothing fazes me. You might be shy, but I’m not and I don’t care.” 

“What - ?” Richard began, and Severin started walking him toward the bathroom. 

As Severin set him down on a toilet, his PJ pants still on, Richard felt no embarrassment at all, only relief, because he had to _pee._

“I’m closing my eyes,” Severin said, “but again: I don’t care. Put your arms around my shoulders.” 

Richard obeyed, and Severin, with eyes closed, lifted him up and helped him pull down his pants. Richard _was_ embarrassed now, even if Severin wasn’t seeing anything. He felt helpless like a child, and again he wondered how the hospital could have sent him home with so few pointers on how to live his life now. 

“Call for me when you’re done,” Severin said, standing up with his hand over his eyes. He closed the door behind him. 

Richard felt humiliated. He forced himself to pee. He flushed the toilet, still sitting down, and reached for his hand soap and the sink spigot, washing his hands from the toilet seat. 

He stretched out and managed to reach his toothbrush and toothpaste, too. For the first time he was grateful for how crammed his New York bathroom was. 

It bothered him that he couldn’t stand to see what he looked like in the mirror, though. He did the best he could without, splashing his face with cold water, making sure the crust was out of his eyes. 

And then came the task of lifting up his pajama pants. He took a breath, frustrated that something so small should be an insurmountable hurdle. 

He tried pressing one hand against the sink, lifting himself up slightly and pulling at his pants. He slipped and banged his elbow. 

“Ow!” 

He paused, heart beating, wondering if Severin had heard that. 

Sure enough: “Richie? Can I help you?” 

Richard closed his eyes. Anyone but Severin. Todd – he’d take Todd, take all of his snide remarks. Anyone but Severin could see him like this. 

But Severin was the only one here. 

“I…” Richard couldn’t form words. This was too hard. He’d rather stay here forever; he’d rather die. 

“Can I come in?” Severin asked. 

“Uh-huh.” It was so much easier to give permission than to ask for a favor. Richard covered himself with his hands, feeling eternally grateful. 

Severin came in with his hand over his eyes. 

“Arms around my shoulders,” he said, as if they’d done this a hundred times before. 

Richard cooperated, and Severin lifted him up and adjusted his pants without hesitation. He took him back to his bed, and Richard, flushed from his cheeks to his chest, said, “You can go now, if you want. I have everything I need.” Also, he needed to hide under his covers and wait to turn invisible. 

Severin chuckled, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Richard liked that he didn’t stay standing, looking down at Richard in a way that would have made Richard feel small. 

“Everything you need?” said Severin. “You mean you don’t need someone to reheat your uneaten breakfast? Or clean off your dish once you’re done with it? To get you more water, to change your sheets, to take you back to the bathroom in a couple of hours, to bring up the cards and gifts people left downstairs, to help you sort out your health insurance paperwork, to pick up your wheelchair? Take you to the doctors, pick up your prescription refills, buy your groceries, clean your apartment? You can do that on your own?” 

He didn’t say it cruelly; he said it all with the smile that was unique to Severin – unique to Severin and that monk Richard had met once, pure kindness. And in Severin’s case, a touch of teasing. 

“I…” Richard swallowed. 

“I’m going to reheat your breakfast. Eat, okay? I have to go to my place, but I’m coming right back here once I get what I need.” 

He leaned forward, taking Richard’s hand and bringing it to his lips. 

Richard’s heart leapt. The touch was so delicate – so everything beyond the realm of the platonic. 

“I’ll be back,” Severin promised. “In the meantime – do you want to stay here, or in the garden?” 

Richard paused. For some reason he hadn’t thought of leaving the apartment; his immobility made him feel trapped. But Wilde was at the front door, eager to mingle with the shop’s morning customers, and Richard realized they’d all been in the apartment for a while. 

“Garden, please,” Richard said, reaching out his arms without thinking. The two of them moved together like they’d been doing this for years. 

* * * *

“Hello, Tali,” Severin called over the chimes as he reentered the shop two hours later. She was reading Harryette Mullen from behind the counter. 

“Hello, Severin,” she said brightly. 

The first step Severin took in his project was stretching up and taking down the chimes the hung over the door. He knew they would torture Richard for as long as they were there, bringing back bad memories. Maybe one day Richard would be able to hang them up again, but for now Severin tucked them away in his bag. 

The other steps would have to wait until he had Richard’s permission - _if_ he had Richard’s permission. 

And asking permission, of course, was the next step. 

He found it curious that there were so few people in the shop. It was always surprisingly busy for a poetry shop, but when he went to the backroom and saw outside in the garden he understood. 

About a dozen people were surrounding Richard, who hadn’t moved since Severin had laid him out on a bench, pillows beneath him. Severin watched from his indoor vantage point. It looked like Richard was telling a story. He was the only one speaking, his beautiful hands gesticulating animatedly, and everyone around him seem entranced in his narrative. 

Richard was a paradox, one Severin found enormously attractive. His shyness, his self-consciousness, the way he allowed strong personalities, like Todd, to push him around, seemed to make him perfect wallflower material. That wasn’t the type of person Severin was typically attracted to – in fact Severin had historically preferred loud, boisterous men, the kind who could push him just as hard as he pushed them. 

But Richard wasn’t a wallflower. He drew people in without meaning to; likely he was entirely unaware of it. Severin had seen it in the hospital, the way the nurses doted on him. The way his friends were fiercely loyal to him – even Todd reserved a special kind of gaze for Richard, was just as much ensnared in Richard’s net as everyone else. 

There was something about his lightness, the soft way he spoke, that drew others in. Severin wondered if everyone found it as alluring as he did, if everyone processed every small detail – the dry skin of Richard’s lips, the way he swallowed nervously before starting a new sentence, his occasional stutter – in the same way Severin did. Maybe Severin’s infatuation was nothing special, and everyone Richard encountered fell for him in precisely this same way. 

Severin felt like this was something special. He was more than old enough to know the difference. 

He went out into the garden. 

“ – the truffles from the corner shop – ” Richard stopped and gazed at Severin. Heads turned; there was only the sound of the pond fountain. Severin put down his duffel bag on a glass table and took a seat on an intricately carved brass chair. 

“Thank you so much for everything,” Richard said. “Thank you for the card, Tom – it was so thoughtful. And Risa, thank you for the groceries. I really…”

It was clear that Richard was signaling everyone to leave, however graciously, and Severin hadn’t intended for that to happen, but everyone said goodbye to him, too, as they shuffled out, and the implication was clear that Severin was someone special. Special to Richard, anyway, which was the only kind of special Severin cared about. 

It was a good kind of validation to have before he embarked on the next step of his project. Once everyone was gone, Severin said, “Do you have somewhere where we could speak more privately?” 

Richard cocked his head. “You mean besides my apartment?” 

Severin nodded. “I was thinking not there.” 

“There’s always the basement,” said Richard. “People don’t go down there too often, and I can just close the door and say it’s closed for the day. It’s where we keep the old books that need the cool and darkness. But I’d need…”

He gestured helplessly. He’d need help getting there. 

Some instinct, something hot and roaring and impossible to hold back, thrilled through Severin’s chest. He’d been drawn into the idea of being a Dom, of being a masseur, and frankly of working for the CIA, because it meant protecting people and caring for them. But no one had ever given him this feeling before: It was like an itch, as irresistible as lust, and it demanded that Severin scoop Richard up in his arms and take him wherever he needed to go. 

* * * *

Richard had no idea what Severin wanted to say to him; he could only tell it was important. For that reason he had Severin close the basement door behind them before they descended the narrow stairs. 

The basement was like a completely different bookstore, no longer Brooklyn-chic and neat, but stuffed with old paperback collections and anthologies; poetry volumes were stacked up in mountains, leaning perilously against bookcases; there was a big cardboard box full of old volumes of _Poetry Magazine,_ one dollar each. 

“There are overstuffed armchairs back there,” Richard said, pointing. 

Severin smiled in the dim lighting. “Of course there are. You’re certainly a cozy curator, Rich.” 

Each time Severin picked Richard up or set him down, he did so as if he thought Richard were made of flower petals or tissue paper. Richard didn’t mind this at all. The over-caution made his heart swell. 

They faced one another in overstuffed old chairs. Richard didn’t want to complain, but his legs ached whenever they weren’t elevated. 

Before he could try shifting in a more comfortable position, Severin took a tiny table and placed it beside the chair, prompting Richard’s feet up onto it. 

“Thanks,” Richard said softly. 

“Nice fireplace,” Severin said, grinning. “Although also kind of weird.” 

There was a false fireplace between them, it’s brick-façade chimney blocked off and leading nowhere. 

“My father had it built when he first opened this shop,” Richard said, shrugging. 

“Ah,” said Severin. He’d brought his duffel bag with him. It was clear he’d left so that he could pack this bag and bring it back. Richard desperately wanted to know what was in it, but he waited for Severin to collect his thoughts. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous. The only tell was the way he tapped his fingers against his armchair; Severin never normally fidgeted. 

“I have,” Severin finally said, “a proposition for you.” 

Richard tilted his head. 

“I hope we established this morning that you are very much in need of a caretaker,” said Severin, “And I hope I made it clear that I am very much willing to be that caretaker.” 

“You don’t need to – ” 

Severin raised a finger and Richard went silent. 

“No,” said Severin. “I don’t, and I won’t – not unless you want me to. But I just thought that staying immobile for the next twelve weeks is the type of thing that would drive most people crazy. And while you could certainly find someone else to be your caretaker, I thought you should consider my request, first, as it’s bound to be the most…” A sensual smile played at his lips. “…enjoyable.” 

Request, not offer. Like he wasn’t presenting the favor of a lifetime but was asking for permission. 

“I always enjoy the time I spend with you,” Richard said, his voice shrinking down so small he wasn’t sure Severin would be able to hear him. Severin leaned in closer. “But I don’t think anyone can make this convalescence enjoyable.” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“Sorry?” 

“I haven’t forgotten how we met. I hope you haven’t either,” he continued. “Do you remember what I told you, after I unlocked your handcuffs?” 

Richard’s face flamed. He remember every part of that day, from the way Severin’s fingers had tasted on his tongue to the color of the blanket Severin had wrapped around him. 

“I told you that you were the most natural sub I’d ever encountered. And yet here you are, still with no one to help you cultivate that side of you,” said Severin. “I believe I made it quite clear that I wanted to be that cultivator. And I have to confess that as much as I wish this hadn’t happened to you, your current situation makes you…” He cocked his head, considering. “It makes you particularly delectable to someone like me, Richard.” 

Richard looked at his casts, an ugly sea green color, bulky and uncomfortable. Severin had seen him at the lowest point in his life, and yet somehow he was regarding Richard like he saw something completely different. 

Richard didn’t feel low, or pathetic, when Severin looked at him like that. 

“What…what is your proposition?” Richard asked, swallowing. 

“I’d be very happy to take care of you, Richard. You allowing me to care for you would be all the payment I would want, frankly,” said Severin. “But if you would like to overcompensate me, you might consider playing by my rules.” 

God. His voice was getting even deeper than normal, gravelly, nearly growling. Richard’s stomach did flips. 

“Your rules?” he managed. 

“You submit to me. You obey me, agree to be my plaything. We’d have a safe word, of course, and boundaries. It could end anytime you liked. But you would make an honest effort to give yourself to me,” said Severin. As he spoke he leaned even closer, his knees touching Richard’s chair. “In return I would make your weeks of bed rest not merely bearable.” He took Richard’s hand and said earnestly, “If you let be your Master, Richie, I will make them the best weeks of your life.” 

Richard was too surprised to speak. He’d expected…something. He’d never expected this. 

When Severin saw that Richard wasn’t ready to speak, he continued: “I’ve never tried anything like this, but I have a hypothesis that the kind of pain – the _good_ pain – that I can give you, and the kind of places you can go under my guidance, will be more effective than your painkillers.” 

“But I can hardly move,” Richard said, wondering if Severin somehow didn’t realize the full reality of the situation. “I’m not sure I’d be able to…to do…what…you might want me to do.” 

He looked away, unable to meet Severin’s eyes. 

“Kink is highly adaptable,” said Severin. “I have plenty of ideas, and they’ve received the approval of Dr. Levine.” 

_“Dr. Levine?”_ Richard gaped. “You – you asked my doctor?” 

Oh dear. Richard had to meet with her again in just a week. 

“It was when I was still pretending to be your husband.” Severin smiled. “She was pleased when I asked. She said she wished more people asked.” 

Richard was dumbfounded. Severin had apparently been planning this for days. 

“She said that I can do anything I want to you,” said Severin, “as long as you let me, and as long as we don’t put pressure on your ankles. That leaves a lot of freedom.” 

“I don’t feel free,” Richard said. 

Severin grinned. “That’s the spirit.” 

Richard moaned. “Severin – are you serious about this?” 

“I can’t believe you have to ask that. Haven’t you met plenty of men who want you as badly as I do?” 

“Wanting someone is different from wanting to take care of them,” Richard pointed out. 

“That’s true,” said Severin. “I’m glad you see the difference.” 

He pulled Richard’s hand to his cheek; he hadn’t shaved that morning, and Richard’s knuckles brushed against his rough stubble. 

“I’m not asking for an answer right away,” said Severin, “unless you’re already certain you’re entirely opposed.” 

“I’m…” He should be. This was bad – dangerous. The kind of thing that could break someone’s heart and derail their concentration in days, and this was nothing if not a time when he needed to focus. But. “I’m not entirely opposed.” 

“Then can I suggest the next steps?” Severin said. 

“Please.” 

“We’ll have two trial periods. The first one will last five minutes, and the second one will last an hour or slightly longer. At the end of each one, you’ll tell me how your thoughts on my proposition have changed.” 

Richard smiled. “You’ve certainly thought this out.” 

“I’m a Dom,” said Severin, bringing Richard’s hands to his lips. “It’s my job to think things through.”


	7. Trials

* * *

  
_i like my body when it is with your_  
_body. It is so quite new a thing._  
_Muscles better and nerves more._  


-E.E. Cummings

* * *

With Richard in his arms, Severin strode through the shop with such intensity that Tali didn’t even ask them what they were up to. Severin locked the apartment door behind them, saying, “How soundproof is your place?” 

“No one can hear us from the shop,” said Richard. 

“Excellent.” Severin set him on the bed and sat down beside him. 

Richard had agreed to trying the first of Severin’s two trials, because of course he had. This was dangerous territory and he should be backing out – at the very least he should agree to let Severin be his caretaker, with no other strings attached. But Severin was the most attractive man Richard had ever met, and he needed to know what kind of trial Severin had in mind. 

“The first step to initiating any relationship properly,” Severin said, after Richard was comfortable on the bed, his legs elevated, “is ensuring physical compatibility.” 

Compatibility. Physical. Richard’s tummy was full of butterflies – delicious, anticipatory butterflies. 

“And that starts with a kiss,” said Severin. 

Richard couldn’t help but smile. That was such a sweet thing to say – Severin always took him aback with his sheer earnestness. 

“Yes,” Richard agreed. “I would like that, Severin.” 

Severin cupped his cheek and leaned forward. There was a split second when they hadn’t touched yet and Richard registered with utter certainty that he had made the right choice. No matter how vulnerable this made him, kissing Severin was what he wanted – needed – to do. 

When their lips touched, Richard felt tiny shockwaves tingle down his whole body. Severin’s lips were hot, his chest pressing against Richard’s, his stubble burning Richard’s skin deliciously, heightening the intensity of the contact. 

When Severin felt Richard returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm, he shifted on top of Richard, straddling him and weaving Richard’s hair between his fingers. 

Richard suppressed a moan. Severin had been right. The pain in his ankles was residing as Severin pecked sweet, soft kisses along Richard’s bottom lip. 

Then Severin pulled away, just by an inch, and Richard opened his eyes. He watched Severin watching him carefully as Severin took either of Richard’s wrists in his hands and guided Richard’s arms above his head. 

Then Severin, whose hands were so much bigger than Richard’s own, took both of Richard’s wrists in his grasp and kept them locked together, his free hand returning to Richard’s scalp. 

Richard’s cock hardened the moment his wrists were restrained. He pulled, gently, making sure Severin meant it: He didn’t want to be able to just slip out of the hold. Severin held him in place, his fingers tightening around Richard’s hair. 

Then Severin brushed his nose against the outer rim of Richard’s ear, down his jawline. Richard closed his eyes, shivering when Severin exhaled against Richard’s neck. 

Oh, but this was good. To be in the hands of someone who knew the power of a single breath –

Severin returned to Richard’s lips like he’d missed them, the kiss going deeper than it had before, Severin’s tongue seeking entrance. Richard failed to suppress a moan this time, eagerly parting his lips. 

He was losing control. 

He writhed against Severin, wishing he could wrap his legs around him, wishing he could free his arms and hug him – but the restraint just made him hotter, put him at Severin’s mercy. Severin’s tongue explored Richard’s mouth, the sensations so intense that Richard yanked, unable to stop himself. 

When Severin pulled away, releasing Richard’s wrists, they were both panting. 

Severin grinned down at him, thighs on either side of Richard’s chest. 

“You really like to struggle, don’t you?” he asked. 

It was only then that Richard grasped what that meant. Richard had been pulling with all his strength, and Severin hadn’t had to make the least amount of effort to keep him restrained. 

And Richard was still trapped beneath Severin, between his thick thighs. He was both turned on by and terrified of how strong Severin was. 

But mostly he missed Severin. Which made no sense, because Severin was right there on top of him, but there were all these layers of clothes between them, and Richard’s stupid casts, and Severin’s chest wasn’t against his anymore, and they needed to be _closer._

“What do you think?” Severin asked. “In my opinion, we certainly seem compatible.” 

“I can’t tell,” Richard said. “I…I think I need a few more minutes of that to make up my mind.” 

Severin laughed when he took in Richard’s innocent expression. 

“Look at you,” Severin said, running a finger down Richard’s cheek. “All flushed – you’re so cute like this.” 

He dove down, his lips touching Richard’s ear. 

Severin whispered: “But you’re really a little devil, aren’t you?” 

Severin complied with his little devil, though, taking his wrists again and kissing him hard against the lips. This time Severin’s groin rubbed against Richard’s, and Richard was rewarded with the feeling of Severin’s hardness beneath his jeans. 

Richard groaned against Severin’s mouth. 

Severin spoke without pulling away entirely: “Are you ready for trial two?” 

“What’s trial two?” Richard panted. 

“First I blindfold you,” Severin said, kissing Richard’s chin. “Then I take off your clothes.” He worked his way up Richard’s ear. “Then I handcuff your wrists to the headboard.” He kissed his earlobe. “And the rest is a surprise.” 

“So you make me helpless,” Richard said. He’d loved it so much when he had met Severin. It was almost unbelievable to think that he’d let Severin tie him up and blindfold him – even flog his ass, if only lightly – the very first time they’d met. 

Richard felt so much more vulnerable now. 

“Oh, no,” said Severin, to Richard’s surprise. “You’re already helpless, little one. It would be hard to make you any more helpless than you already are.” 

Richard supposed that was true. 

“My little tricks and props,” Severin continued, “are strictly for our enjoyment.” 

Richard didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t stop himself from relaxing when Severin looked down at him like that: Pure patience, utter kindness. 

Richard nodded once. “I’m ready for trial two.” 

* * * *

After Richard was blindfolded, he was abandoned. He heard Severin step into the kitchen and unzipper his duffel bag. The anticipation alone – being unable to see what Severin was doing – was maddening. For several minutes Richard heard the kitchen sink running. 

Eventually, Severin was at his side, his fingers pulling up Richard’s shirt. Richard shivered. His only hint of Severin’s reaction was the way Severin growled, “Good boy,” when Richard lifted his arms, making it easy for Severin to slip off his shirt. 

When he was bare-chested, Severin ran his fingers down Richard’s neck to his belly, a single finger trailing down to the elastic waistband of Richard’s pajamas bottoms. 

Severin said, “Hands to the headboard.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Richard said. He wasn’t sure where “Sir” came from, just that it was too late to go back to “Mr. Moran,” and he felt that formal address was necessary. 

He heard nothing. He imagined that Severin had gone frozen. 

“S…Severin?” he asked timidly. 

“Shh, it’s all right,” Severin said. He stroked Richard’s arms before shackling them to the bed. 

The handcuffs were lined with soft fabric, so Richard could struggle all he pleased without chafing his wrists. 

After this, Severin worked on slowly and delicately removing Richard’s pants from around his casts. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Severin said, but Richard didn’t have to say a word – Severin was probably more gentle with him than even he himself would be. 

Soon enough Richard was completely bare. He yearned to know where Severin was looking – to see his own body. Not being able to see himself freed him from self-consciousness. Richard waited patiently for the next step. He only hoped it wasn’t a bad sign that Severin wasn’t touching him. 

* * * *

Severin took a step away from the bed and held his hands behind his back so that he wouldn’t get greedy. He didn’t want to ruin his entire plan when it had only just been set into motion. 

But Richard’s body was a canvas, smooth and creamy white. Severin was used to military men with hard edges, everything bulk, everything power. Richard’s body was soft and sweet, the white interrupted only by a gorgeous pink cock. Severin wanted to see it hard, see it red and gleaming – what an interesting canvas that would be then. 

But he needed to wait. 

This would require more self-control than he’d thought, and he’d thought it would require quite a lot. 

* * * *

“What are you doing?” Richard asked when he was lifted up with one arm. Severin was sliding towels beneath him – soft, fluffy, luxurious towels that were definitely not Richard’s own. 

“Shh,” said Severin. “I _will_ gag you, you know.” 

_“Gag_ me?” Richard squeaked. 

“Yes. I have a lovely new ball gag in my bag, and right now your little mouth is practically begging for it,” teased Severin. 

Richard parted his lips to respond, and Severin’s tongue was suddenly in his mouth. It was invasive, aggressive – and somehow so much more intense for being a complete surprise attack. 

By the time Severin pulled away, Richard was gasping. He didn’t close his mouth right away, hoping Severin would come back for seconds. 

He didn’t seem to plan on it, though. Instead he said, “Well, that certainly woke you up.” 

Richard’s cheeks flamed. He knew what Severin saw: Richard’s cock was rock hard, standing straight up. 

Severin didn’t touch it. Instead, Richard heard him lean down, and then it sounded like he was squeezing a sponge over a bowl of water. 

The sponge, soft and foamy, was brought to his neck, making gentle strokes downward. The water was pleasantly warm. 

“Are – are you bathing me…?” Richard asked. 

“I told you that I’d be better than your average caretaker,” said Severin. “Let me show you how.” 

As Severin continued cleaning him with the sponge, his other hand brushed down Richard’s sides, his tummy, everywhere sensitive. 

“Just relax and enjoy this,” Severin ordered. 

It was easy to obey. 

It was like the full body massage all over again – except this time there were no limits. 

After Severin was finished with Richard’s neck and arms, he glided the sponge to Richard’s chest. It brushed down his nipple and Richard keened. 

He bit his lip, silencing himself. 

“Hm, I think I see a bit of dirt,” Severin mused, rubbing the sponge gently over Richard’s nipple again. 

“O-oh…” Richard thrust at the air. The sponge was so subtle, but Richard’s nipples were incredibly sensitive, and his nerves fired up all the way down to the tip of his cock. 

“And here, too, I see a bit of…” Severin dragged the sponge to Richard’s other nipple. 

“Please! Please, Severin.” Richard writhed against his restraints. 

“Yes, Richie?” Severin asked innocently. 

“Oh, please – please – I need – ” Richard kept thrusting against the air, and he knew the tip of his cock must be wet with precome. 

Severin chuckled. It was a cruel, dominating chuckle. Heat flushed through Richard’s body, but Severin stopped his torture for now, retreating to less sensitive skin and bathing Richard’s abdomen. 

He didn’t miss a spot, eventually working his way to the top of Richard’s pelvis, sliding down his thigh. He scrubbed the inside of Richard’s thigh, the sponge working its way closer and closer to the hot spot. Richard didn’t dare to beg – he was terrified that his eagerness would only delay the pleasure. 

Because Severin was the kind of Dom who loved to tease and torture. Richard sensed that now. 

“What do we have here?” Severin asked. “This is a _very_ dirty spot.” 

Richard bit his bottom lip to keep silent. 

“Oh – oh…” That plan was immediately ruined when Severin ran the sponge up the length of Richard’s erection, gently rubbing the sensitive tip of his cock. 

“Ah, my mistake,” said Severin. “This is actually perfectly clean.” 

He left Richard’s cock. 

“N-no! Please!” Richard couldn’t stop himself. He understood, for the first time, the snippet of E.E. Cumming’s, _Muscles better and nerves more._

“Oh?” Severin said. “Did I miss a spot? Let me take a second look.” 

Severin’s hand grasped Richard’s cock. He stroked, and Richard keened. Richard arched involuntarily as Severin established a bold, assertive rhythm, working his thumb across Richard’s tip every time he finished a stroke. 

“How terrible I am. I nearly forgot…”

Richard moaned pitifully as Severin released his cock entirely. 

In a moment, Severin was playing with Richard’s balls, pulling on them gently with his thumb and forefinger, rubbing them with his palm. 

“Fuck – fuck! Severin!” Richard cried. 

He felt heat, Severin leaning over his body as Severin’s hands continued to play with him. 

Richard gasped as Severin’s tongue touched his cheek. Severin was licking away his tears. 

When their lips met again, Richard was too aroused to kiss back. He moaned helplessly, thrusting against Severin. He could feel Severin’s own cock, big and hard. 

He wanted to reach down and feel Severin there. He pulled away from Severin’s kiss, desperate for oxygen. 

“Please…” he whimpered. “Your cock, Severin, please…”

“Shh,” said Severin. “You’re not allowed to make demands, little one.” 

Severin’s thumb wiped away another of Richard’s tears before it fell, and then his hand returned to Richard’s cock. 

Without warning, he stroked hard and fast. 

“Oh!” Richard writhed and trembled. An orgasm was building like a tidal wave against a dam. 

“Poor little cock,” said Severin, and he, too, was breathless. “About to get so dirty when I just cleaned it…”

“Oh. P-please! – Uhn! – ” 

_Muscles better. Nerves more._

Cummings, cumming, coming, _coming -_

The dam burst. White, heat – orgasm shook – burned – through him. Richard’s stomach was splattered with his own hot come. Richard could hear himself screaming, crying out, was helpless to stop it. The pleasure shook through him, all consuming. 

His head cleared, or fogged; became a different, saner thing. He was panting, his exhausted cock held loosely in Severin’s hand. An intense vulnerability sneaked up on Richard. He felt more exposed than he had ever been in his life. He no longer enjoyed not knowing Severin’s expression it. 

Severin lifted his blindfold. 

There he was. Blue, warm eyes – Richard had never known such warmth. Severin cupped Richard face and kissed him softly on the lips. 

“Let me free you, little one,” he whispered. 

Richard shook his head tiredly. “I’m your slave.” 

Severin didn’t contest this. He reached for the key to the handcuffs and unlocked them, rubbing each of Richard’s wrists soothingly. Then he took a warm cloth and wiped Richard’s come off his tummy. 

“This was a lovely load,” Severin said, looking up. “You’ll have to let me know if I’m allowed to taste it next time.” 

Richard gaped. 

“If there is a next time,” Severin added. He laid by Richard’s side and said, “What would you like, Richie? You were so good for me. Let me reward you.” 

Severin reached to the bedside and took a second, damp cloth. He began wiping away the leftover soap suds on Richard’s skin. In a moment he was entirely clean. As Severin dried him off, he said, "Do you need a painkiller?" 

"No," Richie said, surprised. He hadn't felt so little pain since before the attack; his body was simply floating, free from any anchor except pleasure. "Do you...do you cuddle?"

“I like nothing more,” Severin said, and he took Richard into his arms. 

Richard closed his eyes, could almost purr. He loved feeling Severin’s warmth and strength, the simple intimacy of his embrace. 

Then he processed Severin’s cock, still hard against him. He looked up, the question in his eyes. 

“Ignore it,” Severin said. 

“What if I don’t want to ignore it?” Richard asked. 

“Don’t you?” Severin’s voice was laced with teasing. His hand stroked the side of Richard’s face, soft and tender. “You look like you’re getting very, very sleepy…”

“I can still – ” Richard fought a yawn. Severin’s stroking was instantly relaxing, the golden touch of a masseur. 

“Your eyelids are getting very heavy, little one,” Severin whispered. He learned forward and kissed Richard’s forehead, and Richard felt as if he had no choice but to close his eyes. His body was sated and relaxed. 

“Please don’t leave,” he managed to say. He didn’t want to wake up alone. 

“Not leaving,” Severin whispered. “I’m your watchdog, Richie.” 

Severin shifted so that both of his arms were around Richard, Richard’s head tucked against Severin’s chest. Richard leaned against it and yawned again, unable to open his eyes. 

“When you wake up,” Severin said, “you’ll tell me how you feel about my proposition.” 

Richard wanted to say that Severin didn’t have to wait, Richard had already said it: _I’m your slave._ But he was post-orgasmic bliss midafternoon, with the sultry heat of a winter sun peeping through his blinds, and he didn’t want to break the spell with words. 

He fell asleep to the steady thumping of Severin’s heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the cummings's poem.](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1590/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/)


	8. Interlude I

Sebastian stood straight-backed behind Mr. Benson, his only job to look large and intimidating and reach for the holster under his suit jacket if needed. The elevator was entirely too big, mirrors on all sides, multiplying the glint of Benson’s pilot Ray-Bans a hundredfold. Benson had a flair for the flamboyant. Tonight he wore a navy suit with pink cuffs, gold cufflinks. 

“He has no idea I’m here, of course,” he was saying in his nasally, posh tone. “A complete buffoon, really, totally unaware. It’s rather astonishing such a man could remain alive after all these years. One contemplates the improbability.” His upper lip twitched; a version of smiling. “Really great men these days – Khalid, Hu – are dropping like flies, but vermin like _Moriarty.”_

The name was so easy to sneer; it was almost difficult to pronounce without venom in the voice. Sebastian hid his smile. Benson would not like it if his bodyguard smiled. Sebastian wasn’t even sure he was the one being addressed, or if Benson were merely conversing with his own reflections. 

The elevator stopped at floor 37. The doors slid open, revealing the man Sebastian’s boss was anticipating. 

James Moriarty stood at barely 5’8”. He took in Benson with a gulp of surprise, eyes widening. Sebastian held back a chortle. 

Moriarty was holding a briefcase. For a moment he looked like he was about to hide it behind his back. Such an obvious giveaway. 

Then, very carefully, Moriarty slid on a veneer of coolness, and entered the elevator. The doors closed behind him, and the ascent continued. 

“Mr. Benson,” he acknowledged with a jerk of his head. “What a pleasure.” 

“Likewise,” Benson said, as if it were a joke. 

The elevator was silent for a moment, which seemed to make Moriarty visibly nervous. He cast a quick glance at Sebastian, who didn’t bother with any posturing or overdone gestures. He just stood there, his holster a certain thing beneath his suit jacket. Moriarty swallowed. 

“It’s wonderful – ” He cleared his throat. “It’s wonderful to see you alive. The last I heard, you were trapped in North Korea. I rather thought they might drop you in a gulag.” He released a horrible, fake laugh that revealed a contemptible fear. 

“They did,” Mr. Benson said pleasantly. “But I learned my lesson like a good boy.” 

“Ah,” said Moriarty faintly. 

“Are you disappointed? I imagine my rotting away in the Far East would have made your life much easier. Although, of course, it was _you_ who decided to check into _my_ hotel,” said Mr. Benson. 

Moriarty’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then he managed to choke, “I – I had no idea. You – you own this place? I – I – ” 

“Stop stuttering,” Mr. Benson commanded. Moriarty went silent. “You’re more than welcome to stay at any hotel I own. That we happen to meet in this one is mere good fortune.” 

“Good fortune,” Moriarty repeated faintly. 

“I’d be so curious,” Benson continued cheerily, “to know what’s in that briefcase.” 

Moriarty shook his head softly. “Only papers, nothing of importance – ” 

“Why don’t you come up to my suite? We can have drinks. Catch up on old times,” Mr. Benson said. 

“I’m actually quite busy,” Moriarty practically croaked. 

“I insist,” said Benson politely, voice laced with the threat. 

“Perhaps the bar downstairs.” 

“I insist.” 

There was the slightest hesitation; the sign of a weaker man. Finally Moriarty relented, “Of course.” 

Benson’s elevator soared up swiftly. The chrome doors slid open, revealing a long hallway, at the end of which was the only door on the floor. Benson opened it with a retina and handprint scanner. Sebastian hung back, so that Moriarty stood between Benson and him, with nowhere to run. 

Moriarty was very careful to look at nothing in particular, avoiding eye contact with both men. 

“Come in, come in,” Benson said, gesturing. He kicked off his own dress shoes and said, “I’ll have cocktails sent up, shall I?” 

The suite had a glass wall that faced Battery Park, the greenery of southern Manhattan, and beyond that the harbor and its Statue of Liberty. It was a little blue silhouette from here. 

Moriarty paused in the doorway, only stumbling in after Sebastian gave him a helpful budge. Benson caught this interaction and flashed Sebastian a quick, confidential grin. They were two bullies united against a weak little man, one with a very important briefcase on his person. 

Benson took said briefcase from Moriarty. 

“Why don’t you tell me the password that will open this?” Benson said pleasantly, gesturing to the lock. “Sebastian, close the door.” 

Sebastian complied. Beads of perspiration dotted Moriarty’s forehead, his breathing shallow. 

“Is there any way – ” 

“No, there’s not, you incredibly stupid man,” Benson said, his voice still laced with the same saccharine politeness, his smile pearly white. “The numbers. Now.” 

Moriarty was silent. After a look from Benson, Sebastian took a single step toward him. 

Moriarty looked like he was going to pass out. He said in a hurry, “Four-one-one-three-oh-nine.” 

Benson looked up as if Moriarty had slapped him. His nostrils flared. 

“Is that some kind of joke?” he started, tossing the briefcase onto an overstuffed chair. “How dare you – Sebastian, break his arm.” 

“Yes, Sebastian, do so,” said Moriarty, and his voice sounded as if it belonged to another man. 

“I’ve been waiting all evening, Boss,” said Sebastian, and without further ado he broke Benson’s arm. 

Benson screamed and fell to the floor, writhing, cradling the arm that now bent at a wrong angle. His pain was apparently not consuming enough for Sebastian to be spared a glare of betrayal from the carpet. 

“Search the room. Don’t get too creative; he would have put it somewhere obvious,” Moriarty said. 

“Like on his bedside table?” Sebastian suggested, peering through the doorway to Benson’s bedroom. Sure enough, there was the safe, hardly larger than Moriarty’s empty briefcase. 

“Good boy,” Moriarty drawled, striding into the room. He tapped in the code: four-one-one-three-oh-nine. 

It opened. Benson was weeping from the other room. 

“You can’t,” he sniffled. “You can’t, my men will – ” 

“Kindly slit his throat, Sebastian,” said Moriarty. 

“Yes, Boss.” 

Sebastian obeyed, the blood pooling onto the carpet. 

Moriarty never watched the murders, which seemed to Sebastian to have nothing to do with cowardice or even distaste, but rather because such gore simply didn’t suit Moriarty’s style. 

Moriarty was in his typical bespoke black suit, perfectly tailored to cling to his shoulders. As Sebastian idly wiped off his blade with a silk handkerchief found in Benson’s pocket, he gazed at the bedroom's vanity mirror from the doorway, taking in his boss's reflection. Moriarty’s face was utterly serene as he scanned, quickly, the intelligence in Benson’s safe. 

Moriarty wasn’t tall; he wasn’t brawny; it was easy to mistake his svelte form for weakness, but Sebastian had seen too many displays of Moriarty’s strength to underestimate him. 

“Have you finished, Sebastian?” Moriarty asked idly, peering over his shoulder.

“Ages ago, Boss,” Sebastian breathed. He experienced a flash of pleasure as Moriarty’s pale lips twisted into a smile. It happened so rarely, and Sebastian was very seldom on the receiving end of it. 

Moriarty turned on his heels, facing him. He seemed unaware of Benson’s corpse – it was beneath even his disgust. 

“Come here,” he said. 

Sebastian stepped toward him, but Moriarty raised an ivory hand. 

“I like you on your knees,” he said pensively. 

He got this way, sometimes. Sebastian had no idea what it meant. With any other man it would be obvious, but with James Moriarty it was impossible to know. And he had no idea if Moriarty registered the effect it had on Sebastian, as Sebastian put every effort into hiding it. He ensured his breathing remained steady. In the four months he’d known Moriarty, he’d gotten used to feeling like his body wasn’t enough to contain his simmering sexual frustration. It burned like it might boil out of him, all lava.

He crawled over to his boss. Moriarty’s fingers found his hair and scratched him as if he were a dog. 

Sebastian stood well over six feet, and eighteen years in the army hadn’t made him anything other than massive, the perfect type of heavy weight that men like Benson – and Moriarty – found useful to have around during their business affairs. 

He could get up right now and break the neck, in a single movement, of the man who ordered him to crawl, who treated him like a vicious pet, first ordered to attack and then doted on for the obedient beast he was.

If Moriarty were any other man, breaking his neck was exactly what Sebastian would do. 

“Good boy,” Moriarty purred again, and Sebastian stayed rigid. No one had called him “boy” since he was sixteen. He kept his eyes on the floor, hoping Moriarty was unable to read them from that angle. 

Something flickered in Sebastian’s peripheral vision. He turned without thinking toward the glass floor-to-ceiling window of the bedroom. The silhouette of America’s favorite statue was on fire. Poor little lady.

“Were you aware that a terrorist attack would happen today, Boss?” Sebastian asked mildly. Nothing seemed strange to him anymore, not since meeting Moriarty. It seemed perfectly natural that he was living in a time when random portions of the city burst into flames unexpectedly. 

“I was aware something would happen today,” Moriarty answered vaguely, although it seemed too much a coincidence that they should have front row seats. Sebastian risked a glimpse of him; his upper lip was curled in distaste. “Rather too obvious, don’t you think? Our freedom up in flames. Symbolism is dull.”

Occasionally Moriarty’s voice sounded hollow, revealing an abyss Sebastian was still too afraid to approach. Silence marked these moments.

“I think it looks nice,” he said finally. The blue-green bay was complemented by the vermilion flames, which were in turn highlighted by the brilliant setting sun placed behind them. All watercolors, like something a street artist would paint for a tourist. Pretty terrorism.

Moriarty tilted his head back and laughed. “You big dumb brute.” Sebastian stiffened. “Get up. We have a hotel monopoly to abruptly and surprisingly inherit. Benson’s wife will be so disappointed.”


	9. Todd

They had fallen asleep in a mutual state of contentment and awoke mutually frazzled. Severin’s first waking thought was _bomb, explosion_ before he realized it was only the horrendous cuckoo clock in the kitchen, a little yellow wooden bird clanging away. 

When the torture ended, Richard’s heart was beating hard against Severin’s side. Severin became gradually aware of Richard’s nakedness, his bare skin pressed up against him, a bundle of heat Severin held in one arm. 

Severin wanted Richard everywhere, wanted to touch each part of him, graze his own fingertips against Richard’s perfect skin. But first. 

“Is there any way to disable that clock?” Severin asked gently, hoping Richard understood that Severin wanted to toss it into the garbage. 

“Uh-uh,” Richard said apologetically. He yawned and arched his back. Severin couldn’t help but reach around and stroke with a single finger the bumps of Richard’s spine. Lovely. “It’s a gift from Todd. He might get his feelings hurt if I get rid of it.” 

“Ah,” said Severin. “Let’s not do that, then.” 

They were looking at each other. Intense eye contact, and Richard’s eyes were brown, blazing and wonderful. 

“I want to kiss you,” Severin said. 

Richard smiled and leaned forward. 

Their lips met, Richard’s mouth opening easily to his. Severin’s entire body was alive with delight – this was what he had wanted from day one, what he’d thought about during the weeks that had gone by without a phone call from Richard. He’d regretted not kissing Richard when he had met him, had wondered if he’d ever get another chance. 

Here Richard was, giving him a chance. 

Severin’s urges seemed animalistic and strange, impossible that Richard should indulge him. He wanted his tongue in Richard’s mouth, to touch every hidden part of him like he wanted Richard’s skin to be his own, to close the separation between them. Richard let him do that: Not walk into his body entirely, but to taste him where no one else tasted him. To touch the roof of his mouth, his teeth, suck on his tongue. 

_“Mmmm.”_ Richard grinded against him. 

Ah. He liked that, then. 

Severin broke apart, taking in Richard’s dazed and pleasured expression. There was something extra delectable about Richard disoriented: the parting of his pink lips, his unfocused, soft eyes. 

“Severin,” Richard said. 

“Hm?” 

“Earlier,” he began, “when I called you sir…” His cheeks pinked faintly and he looked down. “You didn’t seem to like it.” 

“You noticed that while blindfolded?” Severin was impressed. 

“Is there a reason why you didn’t?” Richard said. 

Severin paused. 

_Sugar and spice and everything nice,_ Severin thought. That was Richard. And Severin… Severin was a man-sized can of worms that didn’t want anyone to open it, because who the fuck wanted to open a can of worms? 

Richard deserved a bouquet of roses, a book of poems, a man who wasn’t filled with shadows. Someone not Severin. 

But Severin was the one in his bed, so he would open the can. Gradually. Let this be the first step. 

“I’ve been called ‘sir’ plenty in my life,” Severin explained. “But that was back then. No one calls me that, anymore.” 

“Oh.” To his relief, Richard didn’t inquire further. The lid was still shut for now. “What…what can I call you, then?” 

From the way Richard blushed – such an easy blusher – Severin knew exactly what he was asking. He grinned. 

“What would you like to call me, little one?” Severin wasn’t sure where ‘little one’ came from, just that he’d never been with anyone so small and fragile and the name seemed to fit. 

There was a pause as Richard apparently gathered his courage, then blurted out, “May I call you Master?” 

“Fuck.” Heat rolled through him. He took the back of Richard’s head, fingers sinking into soft hair, and pushed Richard’s mouth toward his own. He kissed Richard hard, hooked a leg over his hip and straddled him. Richard groaned, and Severin felt his cock grow hard against Severin’s groin. 

Severin pulled away, looking down at Richard. There was a growl low in his chest, aching and possessive. 

“Yes,” he said. “You may call me Master.” 

Richard looked up at him with undisguised wonderment. Severin was wholly unworthy of it, but he basked in it, reaching out a hand and locking fingers with Richard’s. 

There was a knock on the door. 

The knock turned to insistent pounding. 

Suppressing a sigh, Severin rose, careful to avoid Richard’s cast as he got off of him. 

“Let’s see if we can get them to go away,” Severin said, offering him a wink. 

Tali was on the other side of door. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. Severin quite liked Tali: She had the same nervous tics as Richard, pulling at her sleeves and clasping her hands together, looking down at her feet. She was small and dainty, her short black hair in thin cornrows with little barrettes at the ends, which Severin rather associated with children. 

He became abruptly and acutely aware that his handcuffs were still attached to Richard’s headboard, perfectly visible. He said, “No problem,” not fully opening the door, hoping his body blocked the view. 

“I wanted to ask Richie if I should close the shop,” she said. 

“It’s only five,” Richard called out. He pulled the blankets up to his chin. “Are you leaving early?” 

Tali bit her lip. “Do you two not know? There’s a… There’s been an attack. In the city.” Her voice grew fainter. “I was hoping one of you had heard from Inge.” 

Richard sat up, and handcuffs be damned, Severin opened the door. 

“I’ll call her right now,” Richard said. He stretched out for his phone on the bedside table and Severn rushed to hand it to him. 

“What sort of attack, Tali?” Severin asked. 

“The banks,” she said, “and…”

She pulled at her sleeve. Severin doubted she had even noticed Richard wasn't wearing anything beneath the comforter. He went on his own phone as she gathered her thoughts. 

It didn’t take him half a minute to find more than a dozen news articles on it. It was the type of thing he and Richard would have already known if either of them had been on their phones in the last couple of hours. 

The Statue of Liberty was somehow, impossibly, on fire. Journalists were filming it live from helicopters. The victim tally was unknown, but already retired national security expert Eric Li was imagining how this might impact New York’s economy. Would tourists be deterred? 

Christ. The attack wasn’t even over yet. 

And yes, as Tali had said: Banks across the city had been simply blown up. There was rubble in the streets, traffic was blocked. The victim count was already in the hundreds. All the explosions had happened in Sizo banks, which immediately made Severin think this was an inside job. 

“It’s the Masked Ones,” Severin said. “It’s the same people who had the chemical that set the East River on fire.” 

Tali cried out: “Inge is in Manhattan. There’s a Sizo Bank near her studio. What if…?”

“She didn’t answer,” Richard said faintly, setting down his phone. 

“Take a seat, Tali,” Severin said. “Everything’s always confusing in a terrorist attack, but we’ll know where Inge is soon enough.” 

Which was true, but he didn’t tell her any lies, like that he was sure Inge was fine. He had no idea. 

He wanted badly to be in Manhattan. He wanted badly to be one of the people to hunt the Masked Ones down and end them. 

Because he’d been good at that job, once. 

Until he wasn’t. 

“I want to go into the basement,” Tali said, voice shaking. “I – I – don’t feel safe.” 

“I don’t think it’s likely that they would target Brooklyn,” said Severin quickly. 

“I don’t feel safe!” she said again, sounding vaguely hysterical. “Inge – I need Inge – Inge – ” 

“Why don’t you go downstairs and close the shop?” Severin suggested. “Then we’ll all relocate to the basement, okay? I can go back upstairs every few minutes to try Inge’s phone again.” 

Tali nodded hesitantly, and made her way downstairs. 

“This is bad,” Richard said when she was gone. “She’s right. I don’t…I don’t feel safe.” 

“We’re okay,” Severin said. “My main concern is finding Inge as soon as possible. I didn’t want to say this in front of Tali, but can you tell me where Inge’s studio is? I’ll go drive to the city and look for her right now.” 

To his surprise, Richard sounded angry. “You’re not leaving me.” 

“I’ll come back – ” 

“You’ll get stuck in traffic,” Richard said. “Probably everyone is rushing out of the city.” 

Severin cringed. It was true. And wherever people conglomerated together in their rush to get out of the danger zone – this became the second danger zone. 

“I need you,” Richard said, and the anger left to reveal desperation. “Please, Severin.” 

Guilt gnawed at him as Richard sat up. Severin couldn’t deny the frantic, helpless look in his eyes. He saw it from Richard’s point of view: If Severin wanted to get up and leave, Richard couldn’t do a thing to stop him. 

“I’m sorry.” Severin sat down on the bed and kissed Richard’s forehead, which seemed to soothe him. “I won’t leave you if you don’t want me to.” 

* * * *

Severin came upstairs from the basement, his phone in his hand. He'd left Richard wrapped in blankets on the armchair by the fake fireplace, and Tali had huddled across from him. It was, admittedly, a kind of coping mechanism to have two people to comfort; it helped rid him of the feeling that without his badge and gun he was completely useless. 

“Are Rich and Tali here?” 

Todd was standing by the shop’s front door. Tali must have forgotten to lock it again. 

“They’re in the basement,” Severin said. 

“Tali texted me. She said Inge is M.I.A.” Todd had a strange, blazing look in his eyes; his hands were clenched fists. 

Before Severin could respond, Todd said, “Come up here,” and ascended the staircase to Richard’s apartment. 

Severin followed, curious. 

Todd opened the door for him, making a sarcastic, faux-gentlemanly gesture for him to enter first. There was something off about Todd, something Severin couldn’t quite read and didn’t trust. He’d noticed it back at the hospital, too. 

As soon as they were both in the apartment, Todd locked the door. 

And yanked Severin by the back of the shirt, his speed such that the sheer momentum managed to knock Severin against the door. 

Todd tried to punch him in the stomach; Severin caught his fist in his hand and held it. 

Todd’s eyes were pale flames. 

“You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you?” he said through clenched teeth. 

Severin released him, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the cliché. Who talked like that? 

Todd barreled into him, trying to grab him by the neck. They struggled against each other, Severin using his superior weight to take the fight to the floor. He tried to hold Todd down, but Todd was all wriggling limbs, pure fury. He looked up and spat in Severin’s face. 

Severin jumped to his feet, Todd following. 

“This isn’t a fucking game,” Todd growled. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Severin said. “What are you even doing?” 

He dodged as Todd punched the air where Severin’s face had been. 

“You come into Richard’s life you own him, chain him up like prisoner – who the hell do you think you are?” Todd had an alien way of never placing any particular emphasis on the curse words he used. “How dare you make him do those things?” He gestured furiously at the handcuffs on the bed. “Explain to me how you’re better than a rapist.” 

They moved in a kind of no-contact waltz, Severin turning on the balls of his feet as Todd came toward him, all loose fists and punches. At the word “rapist,” Severin was so struck that he nearly didn’t dodge in time. 

He looked at the bed, with its handcuffs and blindfold, feeling exposed and misunderstood. 

“I would never do something Richard didn’t want,” he said blankly. 

Todd laughed. “Really? So if Richard didn’t want you chaining him up, you’d just call it quits?” 

“If he wanted me to,” Severin said quietly, “then yes, I would.” 

“Then why don’t you just have me instead?” Todd said, sneering. “I gave you my number.” 

“I noticed,” Severin responded coldly. 

They moved back and forth like boxers in the small space. Severin regarded him. His words didn’t sound remotely like a romantic proposal; there wasn’t an ounce of desire in Todd’s voice. 

“Ah,” said Todd, “but you wouldn’t want to play the game with someone like me, would you? Because unlike Richie, I wouldn’t let you push me around.” 

“I care about Richard. Is that what you need to hear?” Severin asked. He was stepping back into the kitchen, making sure he stayed on the defensive, never throwing a punch himself. It wasn’t until he was at the sink that he realized his mistake. 

Todd grabbed the butcher’s knife off the wall. 

“I don’t need to hear a fucking word from you,” he said. “You need to listen.” He brandished the knife, sliced it through the air like a sword. His form was perfect. “Richard is more than my friend, coward.” 

“Really?” Severin asked, trying to put more distance between them, hoping Tali didn’t come up to see if anything was wrong. “Then why aren’t you the one taking care of him? You left him all alone after the hospital.” 

“Taking care of Richard is not my fucking job.” Todd froze, dropping the knife. 

Severin couldn’t help but pause, too. 

From a few feet away, Todd scrutinized him, searching Severin’s face for something Severin couldn’t guess at. Severin had the distinct feeling they were having two separate conversations right now. 

“Do you always play dumb like this?” Todd asked finally. Again, Severin felt like he was speaking in a code Severin didn’t know. 

“Just say what you need to say,” Severin said cautiously. “Richard will want me back downstairs.” 

“It’s simple,” responded Todd. “If this goes further, I kill you. If you try some shit on Richie – asphyxiation, blood play, whatever sick fucks like you get up to – you will be dead at my feet.” 

“I would never do something like that,” Severin said. 

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Todd’s eyes flashed. “Because I just told you not to.” 

He stepped away from Severin, and Severin felt the electric tension diminish, the nonsensical match apparently over. The whole episode felt surreal. 

Todd knelt down and picked up the knife, putting it back in its holder. 

“You’re a good fighter,” Todd said. 

“I’m not a fighter,” Severin countered. 

Todd pretended he hadn’t heard. “It doesn’t matter if you can escape all my blows, though,” he continued. “If you hurt Richie, you’ll find that bullets are a lot harder to dodge.” 

* * * *

Richard had started to worry, wondering why Severin was taking so long to return to the basement. 

“Maybe he’s talking to Inge,” Tali said excitedly. 

Richard nodded, wishing he could just stand and go up the steps by himself. 

Finally, the basement door opened. Richard heard two, not one, pairs of footsteps descending. In a moment Severin and Todd emerged from the bookcases. 

Todd was wearing a poker face, but Richard knew something was wrong the moment he saw Severin’s frown, the way he angled himself from Todd, like he was expecting to be hit at any moment. 

Severin wore his heart on his sleeve. Such a strange trait in a C.I.A. agent. 

“Hi, Todd,” Richard said. “Is everything all right?” 

Severin looked at him intensely, and it was clear he would have something to say once they were alone. 

“Yeah, everything’s all right,” Todd said casually. “Also, I heard from Inge.” 

_“What?”_ Tali gasped. 

“She’s stuck on the downtown train,” said Todd. “But she should be back here soon.”


	10. Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for there to be ~plot~ and instead I wrote about dicks. Oops.

Chelsea was glittering in the rain. As Severin slowed the car before a red light, four twinks crossed the street, smacking each other on their hot pants-clad butts and smearing glitter over their arms, laughing without umbrellas. 

Bobby Darin was playing on the radio, the air smelled like end-of-winter, and it felt good to get out. Richard hadn’t realized how closed in he felt until Severin invited him to his apartment. It was a way of celebrating the last night before Richard had a wheelchair. It also marked a full week of Severin having been his caretaker. 

“Once you have your wheelchair,” Severin had said to him last night, “I’ll take you out to dinner, or to the Hudson, to the Highline, anywhere you want to go.” 

It’d been a throwaway comment, but it’d sent Richard’s tummy fluttering. The implication was that Severin wanted to take Richard out, and often, like he was proud to show the world that they were together. 

Shortly after the second terrorist attack, Annalise Pope had popped into the shop to make sure everyone was well. She’d found them all in the back of the store, Todd in an armchair, Inge and Tali huddled together on another chair, Richard laying on the couch with his head in Severin’s lap. 

Annalise Pope had simply looked at them and said, “Ah. So my favorite foursome is now a fivesome.” 

It seemed that simple. Severin fit. 

Excruciating sadness clutched at Richard’s chest when he thought of it all going away. There was the constant, silent reminder that this couldn’t last. 

He shoved the sadness down. 

He reached for Severin’s hand, which was on his thigh. Severin almost always drove one-handed, leaning back and at ease even during the worst traffic. Richard didn’t know anything about cars, but whatever kind Severin had, it was sleek and black and smelled like he’d bought it yesterday, all fresh leather upholstery. Severin said it’d been his retirement gift to himself. 

Severin pulled up to the curb, parallel parking with one hand. Richard didn’t know how to drive, but he was impressed. 

“And voila. We’re here,” Severin said. 

He went around to the passenger side. As he took Richard bridal style in his arms, he said, “When you get your wheelchair, I’ll have to figure out how to unload it as quickly as I can pick you up now.” 

Richard imagined that wouldn’t be a problem. Severin could already carry him while holding an umbrella, his apartment keys, and closing the passenger door all at once. 

“You’re ambitious,” Richard teased. Then he added, “Severin…?”

“Hm?” Severin swiped his fob key over a red-bricked building’s entrance. They were close to the Highline Park, just a few blocks from the river. Richard loved it. 

“Don’t you have to go back to work?” 

“I don’t work,” he said. “I’m retired.” 

“I’m being serious,” Richard said. “I’ve already taken up so much of your time.” 

Severin carried him up a flight of steps. The staircase was narrow, perfect for banging casts into, but after a week Richard had learned to never dread when Severin carried him. Severin simply never mishandled him. 

“This is my work now.” 

Richard stiffened. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Severin hurried, reading him like always. “I just meant – ” 

“It’s true,” Richard objected. “I’m your work now.” 

Severin unlocked his door. 

“I’m not doing consulting work. My secretary, Jessica, is on a leave that I suspect will be permanent. And I canceled all of my massage appointments for the next three months the day after you were admitted to the hospital,” said Severin. 

“Why?” Richard gasped. 

Severin flicked on the light. “Because. I don’t want to touch anyone except you anymore.” 

Richard was distracted as he took in Severin’s apartment for the first time. 

Richard felt a wave of déjà vu, like he’d been here before. The whole apartment was wood floors and furniture, open windows and books on the walls. It was a studio, the kitchen on one side, on the opposite side Severin’s bed and wardrobe. 

“Your studio looks just like mine.” Richard couldn’t stop staring at it. It was uncanny. Just like Richard, Severin had an oversized bookshelf in the corner where most people would place a TV. And just like Richard’s, it was lined with old paperbacks. 

“Huh,” said Severin, kicking off his shoes. “I guess it does.” 

It was clear he didn’t understand the significance that coursed through Richard’s veins, made his heart beat. 

There were differences, of course. Richard preferred dark, solid mahoganies and warm colors; Severin leaned toward teak and bamboo, light and fresh, his walls stark white. Richard’s apartment looked more like Severin’s personality; Severin’s more like Richard’s. Like they’d been seeking each other this whole time without knowing it, had surrounded themselves with the other years before meeting. 

This felt huge. Severin placed Richard carefully on his bed, removing his coat and saying, “I’ll start dinner.” 

“Severin,” Richard said urgently. 

“Little one?” Severin leaned down at him, cocking his head. 

Richard cupped his cheek, tracing his thumb along Severin’s rough stubble. 

“I think this is supposed to happen,” he said. “I think we were supposed to meet, even if you end up breaking my heart.” 

“I would never break your heart,” Severin said seriously. He sounded so sincere that for a moment Richard believed him. 

Severin placed a tender kiss on his forehead. After stacking up several pillows for Richard’s feet and back, he went to the kitchen to start their meal. 

Richard settled in and watched. Whatever he anticipated – and he wasn’t even sure, at this point, of how things would progress – he couldn’t resist indulging in the sight of a beautiful man cooking for him. It was yet another first that Severin had provided for him. 

  
“I hope that meal was filling but energizing,” Severin said, clearing away their plates. 

Severin didn’t cook like a bachelor. He’d been in the kitchen for ages with his food processor and juicer, finally presenting cold ginger carrot soup, a kale salad drizzled with a homemade lemon dressing, and a loaf of bread that he’d baked up like a pro. 

“It was,” Richard said. “I’m sorry we have to eat everything in bed.” 

“You apologize too often,” Severin said. He made quick work of the dishes. 

Severin had been right in taking him here. Richard felt refreshed and happier just because he was outside of the apartment. He wondered if Severin had something specific planned for tonight, but he didn’t care if they just watched a movie. 

Severin dimmed the lights, and the look he gave Richard told him that they weren’t just going to watch a movie. It was his sexy half-smile, too mischievous to be up to any good. 

If Richard hadn’t been energized before, he was now. 

“I have a game,” Severin said simply, striding toward the bed and unbuckling his belt. 

Richard swallowed. “What are the rules?” 

“‘What are the rules,’” Severin repeated, laughing. “Of course that’s the first question you would ask, little one. Always so eager to obey.” 

Richard’s cheeks heated. It’d been a week, and he still hadn’t seen Severin nude. He hadn’t gotten the feeling that Severin was holding out on him. Instead, it’d been a building of curiosity and anticipation, as well as an acknowledgement that Richard got off on being completely bare in front of a stronger man who wasn’t. 

Now Severin unbuttoned his jeans and escaped them, revealing thick, muscled thighs and a bulge that made Richard’s own cock wake up. Richard watched as Severin leaned down, took his phone out of his pocket, and tossed it on the bed. 

Severin moved onto his sweater, making quick work of tossing it to the side. Richard would never grow tired of tracing his fingers along Severin’s sculpted abs, something Severin had noted and apparently found amusing. 

“Anything that gets your hands on me,” he’d said. 

Richard wondered how hard he’d have to work to get Severin to take off his boxer briefs. Would he have to beg? It was well worth it. But what if Severin insisted he be blindfolded? 

As Richard wrestled with those thoughts, Severin’s thumbs went to the waistband of his boxer briefs. It looked oddly as though he was going to slide them down. 

He slid them to his ankles and stepped out of them. 

Richard gaped. 

Severin was big. Richard knew that. But knowing it and seeing it was different. 

_Hung like a horse._ It was a stupid, vulgar thing to think, but it was an automatic thought that passed through Richard’s consciousness as he took in Severin’s form: the broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist; the concave indentations beneath his hipbones, leading to a mouthwatering cock and a pair of symmetrical, generous balls. 

“The game is very simple,” Severin said, grasping his thick cock and giving it a stroke. It grew in his hand. Richard very much hoped the game was called “Richard gets fucked deep into tomorrow.” 

But it wouldn’t be, of course. Because of his stupid, bulky casts and current fragility. Richard wouldn’t get fucked by anyone for a long, long time. 

“I am going to strip you bare,” Severin continued, “and suck your cock.” 

This was a good game. Richard liked this game. 

Severin got on all fours on the bed. 

“I am going to pleasure you as creatively and enthusiastically as I can for as long as I please,” he said, crawling like a panther toward him. “And you…”

“Me?” Richard squeaked. 

Severin looked down at him, and Richard was able to feel his heat, get a sense of his sheer muscle mass and strength. Richard knew he was absolutely at Severin’s mercy. 

“You have an equally important role to play,” said Severin, catching Richard’s mouth in a kiss. The conversation was momentarily halted, Severin’s tongue invading Richard’s mouth. They often became distracted with kisses like this, kisses that demanded everything from Richard: his attention, his breath, his speeding heart. He’d never been with a more passionate or skilled kisser. 

Severin could be aggressive when he liked. Apparently he liked right now: He tongue-fucked Richard’s mouth, thrusting into him. Richard’s whole body quivered. The pleasure started in his mouth and spread everywhere, tingling down his spine, to his cock. But mostly he felt it _there,_ his hole. Everything about this kiss made Richard feel like he was already getting fucked. 

_Your aggression turns me on._

Severin pulled away. He looked down at him, eyes blazing, no doubt finding Richard at once pleased and dazed. 

Then he reached down and began lifting Richard’s sweater toward his chest. Richard lifted his arms, sitting up. 

After Severin threw the sweater aside, he dove toward Richard, kissing from his neck to his chest, down his sensitive belly, until his fingers were unbuttoning his pants. He was so gentle. He never hurt Richard, not even by accident. 

He made two piles of pillows and spread Richard’s legs apart, elevating them both separately. Richard was spread and open, only his ass inaccessible. 

When Severin was done navigating Richard’s casts, all their clothes entangled on the floor, he seemed surprised to find Richard rock hard. 

“I thought I was so slow that I ruined the mood,” he said, his hand taking Richard’s cock. Not doing anything with it, just touching. “Evidently not.” 

_Your gentleness turns me on,_ Richard wanted to say. Couldn’t. 

“What are the rules?” Richard asked. 

Severin grinned. He sat between Richard’s legs, his own legs on either side of Richard. They were entwined, their cocks touching. “We take turns pleasuring one another. I use my mouth. You use your hands.” 

Richard winced. God, he wanted his mouth on Severin’s cock – wanted to taste his skin, his salt and arousal. But if this was the position Severin wanted to be in, Richard couldn’t bend down to suck; he’d need full use of his legs to afford that kind of flexibility and balance. 

“I get as much time as I like to please you,” Severin continued, “and you get thirty seconds. Whoever comes first or reaches for their own cock loses. The winner gets to decide our itinerary for the rest of the night. The loser has to obey.” 

“I only get thirty seconds?” Richard said. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. “That’s not fair,” he whispered. 

But he liked it. It made him feel like these rules weren’t just based around Richard’s casts, but like Severin was being cruel and teasing and horrible for the sake of being horrible, and that always drove Richard wild. 

Severin grasped both of Richard’s wrists in one hand. As they were shackled, he brought them to his lips and said, “I know. I’m terrible, aren’t I?” 

“The worst,” said Richard, all smiles. 

Severin reached for his phone, which Richard had forgotten was on the bed. 

“I’ll be timing you,” Severin said. “But since I’m not a gentleman, I go first.” 

He leaned down, Richard admiring his flexibility. 

Everything happened fast: The view of Severin’s back, his vertebrae and shoulder blades, his muscular shoulders flexing as he repositioned himself; a wet, swirling sensation on the tip of Richard’s cock. Richard was melting. 

“Uhnnn…” Richard hung his head back, panting at the ceiling, unable to keep looking at the gorgeous sight before him as Severin’s tongue flickered against his tip. 

Severin was lavish with his saliva, licking wetly up Richard’s whole length before taking him into his mouth entirely. 

“Oh – oh – fuck – Severin,” Richard gasped. 

It stopped. 

Severin sat up, wiping his mouth. 

Richard panted, recollecting himself. 

“I…” He tried to form words. He tried to form a thought. 

“Your turn,” said Severin simply. “Timer starts – now.” 

Richard pushed himself up. He felt mostly recomposed, although the cold wet of Severin’s spit on his hard cock was prolonging his pleasure. 

He looked down. Severin was rock hard, just the faintest bit of precome on his tip. Richard reached for it automatically, collecting it on his fingertip and bringing it to his mouth. 

“Twenty seconds,” Severin said. 

“But I haven’t started,” Richard objected. 

Severin laughed. 

Richard took Severin’s cock in his hand. It was so big. Okay, then, two hands. 

He took a lesson out of Severin’s book and spit into his own palm, rubbing it against Severin’s gleaming tip. 

He looked up. Severin was smiling, lips parted just slightly. He was so handsome Richard never wanted to look away. 

The phone buzzed. 

“Hands off,” Severin commanded, straightening up. 

He pushed Richard’s hands aside and pressed against Richard’s chest, making him lean back. Richard’s heart pounded as Severin’s mouth took him in. Severin sucked, his tongue flicking against Richard’s cock. His hand cupped both of Richard’s balls. 

“Severin…” Richard squirmed, half-thrust his hips. Severin immediately pinned his hips to the bed. 

That didn’t help. 

“Severin,” Richard keened. Severin was bobbing up and down on Richard’s cock. Richard gasped, squirming, trying to get away before he spilled his load, but Severin had trapped him. 

Severin slid off his cock. Richard thought it was over until Severin began laying big, wet kisses up and down his length, grinning the whole time. 

“Your turn,” he finally said, coming up. 

“Can we kiss first?” Richard asked. He was momentarily distracted by the sight of their two cocks, close together, his own pink and hungry, Severin’s tip bright red and gleaming. 

“Always.” Severin cupped Richard’s chin and pulled him closer until their mouths were touching. Severin only pecked him lightly before flicking his tongue along his bottom lip. 

Richard’s breathing grew deeper, his skin hotter. Severin pecked kisses along his jawline, finally reaching his ear. 

He licked the rim of Richard’s ear, making Richard shiver, before whispering, “Play with me, little one.” 

The room was spinning slightly. Richard leaned against Severin’s shoulder for support, trying to calm himself. Taking in Severin’s masculine scent and feeling his heartbeat didn’t exactly help. 

“I’m ready,” Richard finally said in a wavering voice, sitting up. 

Severin started the timer. 

“How am I supposed to win like this?” Richard asked as he grasped Severin’s cock. 

“You’re not,” Severin said happily. 

Richard stiffened and looked up. 

* * * *

Severin’s words triggered an unexpected reaction in Richard: A little crease between his brows, a small frown. 

“You’ve designed a game I can’t win,” Richard said carefully. 

“I can’t help it,” Severin said, stroking his hair. He hadn’t meant to upset him. “You just seem to enjoy it so much when you’re at a disadvantage.” 

Richard paused before seeming to take this answer as satisfactory. Then he took Severin’s cock in his hand. Severin discreetly restarted the timer. 

He enjoyed watching Richard’s hands at work more than he could have imagined. Richard didn’t touch him exactly as he liked to be touched: He liked it rougher, to be grasped harder, but those instructions could come later. For now – 

Oh. Holy shit. Richard’s finger tickled the tip of Severin’s cock. Severin watched, transfixed, as Richard’s finger danced around Severin’s head, lubricated by spit and precome. Richard flirted with Severin’s slit, coming so close without touching it. 

“Ow,” Richard whispered. 

Severin looked up and realized he’d been grasping Richard’s hair – hard – without realizing it. He didn’t even remember reaching out for him. 

He loosened his grip but kept his fist clenched against Richard’s scalp. Richard seemed to like it there. 

Then his finger dipped in Severin’s slit. 

He pushed and rubbed against the slit of Severin’s cock, and _it felt so fucking good._ Severin gritted his teeth, breathing hard. 

Something buzzed. Richard’s hands released him. 

The fucking timer. Whose idea was the fucking timer? What a stupid idea. 

“Severin?” Richard was smiling. “You looked dazed.” 

“Play with me some more,” Severin said lightly. 

That got a pleasant blush out of Richard, but he shook his head innocently and said, “I’m not going to break my Master’s rules.” 

Oh, fuck, this little bird. Severin wanted to fuck him hard – make him come and scream and tremble all over. He would never say out loud that Richard’s casts were keeping them from getting as close as Severin wanted, but it was the only thing on his mind. 

He shook his head clear. 

If his only task in life right now was to suck on Richard Brook’s cock, then he had it fucking good. Richie’s cock honestly looked like candy. Or maybe it wasn’t so much that it looked like candy as that it made his mouth water in the same way, was something he wanted to taste and lick and smell and relish. 

He took Richard’s entire cock in his mouth, because Severin had spent enough years gagging on cocks bigger than Richard’s to have no trouble taking his whole length in. He couldn’t help but play with Richard’s balls, too, before popping Richard’s cock from his mouth and licking them instead. 

“Oh! Severin! Nnn… I like it there,” Richard panted, probably unaware of what he was even saying. He was so vocal; he couldn’t stop his little mouth from running. 

Severin tried to focus. Richard had big, round, mostly hairless balls. 

If Richie didn’t have his injuries, Severin would pull up his legs, exposing his hole. He’d fuck Richie and watch how good his balls looked slapping against him. 

“Oh…” Richard was moaning away, the noises going straight to Severin’s cock. Severin pulled back. 

“No rest time,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Play with me. Now.” 

Richard looked up at him with his big brown eyes, mouth agape. He always wore that face when Severin ordered him around. It did something to Severin. 

He reached out and pinched Richie’s sensitive little nipples. 

“Oh!” Richard moaned, biting his own wrist. 

_“Now,”_ Severin growled, setting the timer. 

Richie grabbed ahold of his cock, stroking with one hand. He must have noticed how much Severin had enjoyed the single finger tormenting his head, because Richie went right back to it. 

Richie took his thumb and tapped Severin’s cock, repeatedly, insistently. Such minute movements, sending the most intense waves of pleasure through Severin’s body. 

“Stroke faster,” he ordered, his voice gravelly. “And squeeze me harder.” 

Richard complied. Severin took Richard’s scalp in his fist and shoved Richard’s mouth against his. He tasted Richard as he liked: His entire tongue thrusting into Richard’s mouth. 

Richard slowed down, apparently dazed. 

Severin broke apart long enough to growl, “Don’t you dare fucking stop,” before tongue-fucking Richard’s mouth again. 

Richard tried to moan but couldn’t, quite, with Severin invading him so thoroughly. He focused on Severin’s cock, though, grasping him hard, seeming to accept that Severin was just going to take what he wanted. 

The timer went off. 

Richard tried to pull away, but Severin spoke against his mouth: “Ignore it.” 

He continued kissing Richard, both his hands in Richard’s hair, but Richie didn’t touch him again. 

Severin pulled away. 

“I said ignore it,” he said, but when Richie reached for him once more, Severin batted his hands away and stood up instead. 

He pressed his groin against Richard’s face. 

“Oh…” Richard moaned. 

“Do you like that?” Severin asked. 

Richard wrapped his arms around Severin’s thighs, pulling himself closer. 

“Yes, Master,” he whimpered. He was smelling Severin, taking in his musk. 

“Open your mouth,” Severin said. 

Richard obeyed. The perfect little thing apparently knew exactly what sort of fucked up, possessive mood Severin was in, because he didn’t try to suck him. He opened his mouth as wide as he could and just waited, the little fucking angel. 

Severin fucked his mouth. It was warm and wet, and fucking _right._

He was close, and he didn’t want to waste his load. He wanted his come inside Richie, needed it there. He thrust, his hands locking Richard’s head into place. Richard had his eyes closed, looked strangely at peace. 

Basically the fucking opposite of how Severin felt. 

“If I can’t fuck your ass,” Severin grunted, “then I’m going to fuck you every single other way I fucking can.” 

Richard’s hands squeezed his thighs harder. 

It was the image of him, waiting so eagerly to collect Severin’s load, that finally did it. Severin groaned, his entire body tensing. It was always strange to come while standing up – some of your focus had to remain on not falling, and on not shoving your whole cock down your partner’s throat as you lost it, thrusting into them. 

Richie’s mouth filled up with seed; Severin could feel it, wet and hot around his length. Richie gurgled, trying to swallow it down, and Severin pulled out to let him. He stroked himself, milking out his last drops. 

Drops. He’d thought. A veritable stream of come painted Richie’s chin, lips, and cheeks, like a second load. Richie looked up at him, parting his lips to collect even more. 

“Fuck,” Severin finally breathed, the last drops drizzling onto Richie’s bottom lip. He collapsed on top of Richie, making him yelp. He shoved their mouths together, pinning Richie to the mattress as they kissed. 

When they parted they were both panting, come- and spit-covered messes. Richie was hugging him tight, his arms reaching across Severin’s back. 

Severin realized Richie was still hard beneath him. Guilt trickled through him. 

And that damn timer was still buzzing. 

“Severin…” Richie said after a few minutes, his voice filled with disbelief. 

“Mm?” 

“You lost,” Richie said softly. “You came first.” 

Severin looked at him. Richie was blinking in surprise, so cutely. The game had been skewed against him and he’d somehow emerged as victor. 

“That’s right.” Severin planted a kiss on his sticky lips. “I lost, little one. The rest of the night is up to you.”


	11. Interlude II

Todd was grasping the world’s best military-grade handheld fieldscope, but even that couldn’t help him see through Severin Moran’s apartment curtains. He’d been able to make out their shadows earlier – two silhouettes behind a curtain of white, pressed together. Todd was alone in his car, and his breath fogged up the windows. The rain wasn’t helping his view, either, but he didn’t want to draw attention by turning on his windshield wipers. 

His passenger door opened. It’d been locked. 

Severin Moran got into the passenger seat, all black leather gloves and combat boots. Todd looked through his scope at the window of Severin’s apartment. His silhouette was still there, his shadow-lips meeting Richie’s. 

Todd turned back to the man in the passenger seat. His forehead nearly smacked into the barrel of a gun. He didn’t glance at it except to note its model: a Smith and Wesson MMP, practically gleaming. 

“You’re Severin’s twin,” he said, unfazed, taking his own gun out of the side holster beneath his jacket and pointing it casually at the man’s chest, keeping his fieldscope in his other hand. He switched off the gun’s safety. 

The man wasn’t Severin. Severin Moran had a simpleton’s face, open and easy to read, the blue of his eyes only heightening his transparency. This man’s gaze was icy and cruel, ants burning beneath the magnifying glass. He clenched his jaw in a way Severin never did, devoid of smiles. 

“How’d you guess?” The man’s voice was like his face: hard and opaque. “Do you see a resemblance?” 

Barely, now that Todd had really looked. But he ignored the jibe and said, “Did Severin tell you to meet me out here?” 

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” His voice was thick with joyless sarcasm. 

“Fuck off,” Todd snapped. He’d researched this man, knew quite a lot about him. He wracked his brain for the info. 

“Ouch. There's no need to be rude.” The man’s expression changed minutely – Todd wasn’t sure how, maybe a slight twitch of an eyebrow, but it refreshed his memory. 

“I was wondering what you’d look like in person, Sebastian,” he said. 

“Any surprises?” Sebastian asked without interest. Behind him, Todd could see the moon hanging big and orange at the end of street, smack between two skyscrapers. It looked too majestic for this concrete city. Men like Sebastian didn’t deserve the moonglow on their shoulders. 

“Yeah.” Todd took a quick look through his fieldscope, keeping a finger on his trigger the entire time. He couldn’t get too distracted. “There are surprises.” 

Nothing had changed in the apartment. They were still going at it with the lights on, like animals. 

“Well…?” Sebastian prompted. 

“You look stone cold sane,” Todd said. Mainly stone cold, but the sanity was there, too, in the calculation in his eyes, the fierce intelligence. 

“I like to think I am.” Sebastian’s laugh was hollow and merciless. 

“So why’d you do it, then?” Todd asked conversationally. A group of party girls and boys paraded past his car. Chelsea was cute at night; made him hope it didn’t get blown up anytime soon. 

“You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“You threw a grenade at your commander’s head." Todd turned to him. "You’re the disgrace of the Moran family. You were nicknamed the American Psycho in the newspapers.” 

“Oh, yeah. That hurt my feelings,” Sebastian said. 

“You’re not answering my question.” 

“What the fuck do you care why I did it?” He arched his eyebrows, the first expression that didn’t seem like a veneer. 

“Just curious.” Todd shrugged. “I like knowing my enemies.” 

And talking for time was the oldest trick in the book. 

“The fucker had it coming,” Sebastian answered simply. 

“I know.” Todd feigned boredom. “You said that in your arrest statement. But _why’d_ he have it coming?” 

Todd pretended to be occupied with something he saw through his fieldscope, because it seemed like Sebastian didn’t plan on answering. Sometimes the best tactic in these cases was prolonged silence. 

After what must have been a solid minute, Sebastian said, “He put his hands on one too many Afghani women.” Out of Todd’s peripheral, he saw Sebastian’s upper lip twitch. “No one else was doing anything about it.” 

“Ah. Well I count myself fortunate that I’m not a rapist, then.” Todd looked at Sebastian when he added, “How did the next part go?” 

“How did I disappear?” he asked. 

“Yes. You were in a maximum security prison.” 

“I used this.” In a flash, Sebastian whipped out an FBI badge without ever moving his gun arm. 

Todd gave it a quick once over and looked away, returning to his fieldscope. “That’s a fake.” 

“This one isn’t.” The voice came from the backseat of his car. Todd jumped – nearly lost his grip on his gun, damn it. He looked at his rearview mirror. 

He caught a glimpse of a thin-lipped, deranged smile. He craned his neck over his shoulder. His heart was pounding, because no doors had opened or closed, which meant there had been someone with him this entire fucking time. 

A man was sitting upright in the middle seat, legs spread and arm held out to display an FBI badge that, unlike Sebastian’s, didn’t seem like an excellent fake to Todd’s well-trained eyes, but like the real deal. The man was in a bespoke navy suit, black hair slicked back. There was nothing off about him except his entire fucking face, which looked the exact opposite of stone cold sane. 

“And who are you?” Todd forced nonchalance into his voice. 

He was disconcerted when the man’s smile widened. “Don’t you see the resemblance?” He fluttered his eyelids, waiting. Todd said nothing. 

Then the man snapped forward, and Todd thought he was about to be disarmed, but the man only grabbed his fieldscope. He peered through it. 

“Ah, young love,” he sighed, apparently peering at Severin’s window. “They’ll be at it for a while.” He tossed the fieldscope – worth tens of thousands of dollars – onto the backseat floor. “Buckle up, Mr. Culler. It’s time to play chauffeur for me and my boy.” 

Anger flared in Todd’s chest. “And why would I do that?” he challenged, and he shook his gun for emphasis. 

For the first time, Sebastian smiled. Todd wished he hadn't. His stomach dropped and his hands went clammy. The smile was a broken thing, shards that were too shattered to be glued back together. 

“There are two guns in this car,” Sebastian said, like the beginning of a joke, “but only one of them is loaded.” 

There was a pause. Todd considered that this was a bluff meant to put him off, but with a stuttering heart he already knew what he’d find. He steadied his breathing as he ejected his gun’s cylinder. 

All of his fucking shells were gone. 

“Shit,” he hissed. Then he reached for his keys, starting the ignition. His piece of crap car took two times to start, squealing in the rain. Severin’s brother waited patiently; the man in the back sighed. 

When the car finally came to life, Todd said, “Where are we off to, then?” 

He directed the question at Sebastian Moran, but it was clear that Sebastian wasn’t the head of this operation – or whatever the fuck this was. 

“Drive north,” the unhinged man purred. Todd adjusted his rearview mirror so that he couldn’t see the man’s eyes in it. “You’ll find out when we get there.”


	12. Sebastian

The sky was crepuscular blue just before the dawn, not quite lighting the room. They were in the hotel that had once been Mr. Benson’s and was now Moriarty’s, in a suite that had a front row view of the Statue of Liberty.

It had been a solid week, and Lady Liberty was still dressed in flames. The fire had neither ceased nor spread. The media was reporting that it was being carefully monitored by the government, but that was bullshit. Officials were just hovering around the site as confused as everyone else. Sebastian half-suspected that the fire would go on long enough that everyone would normalize it, and it’d go back to being a tourist site as usual. 

Moriarty stepped toward the glass of the window, hands in his suit pockets. He looked hungry, the incendiary outside reflected in his dark irises. Sebastian had spent all of dinner across from Moriarty as he sucked down oysters, licking his fingers, a kind of performance art that maddened Sebastian. All those glimpses of his boss’s pink tongue. 

Todd Culler had spent the whole meal quaking in his boots just because he could feel Sebastian’s gun pressed up against his kneecap. Moriarty had shown little honest interest in him, had kept shooting glances at Sebastian, unnoticed by everyone else. That was new. Usually Sebastian was a threat in the background, not someone Moriarty played buddy-buddy with. 

“Was anything about tonight actually useful?” Sebastian asked. “Culler told us almost nothing.” 

“It’s ‘nothing’ that we now know the supplier of the world's newest tool for terror?” Moriarty drawled. 

“It’s frustrating that we needed an idiot like Culler to tell us,” Sebastian said. 

“Oh, no,” said Moriarty. “All my information comes from idiots. It doesn’t make the information less valuable.” 

“But it means that we’ve been killing the wrong targets for months, Boss,” Sebastian pointed out. “And everyone thinks we’re a part of the Unmasked Ones, they think we’re some devout fucking psychos, that killing off the city’s arms dealers was _their_ plan – ” 

Moriarty leaned his head back and laughed. “The world’s top weapons dealers were wrong targets? Is that what you would call it?” 

He paused, and they both glanced unthinkingly out the window, at the Statue on Fire. The fire that could burn without spreading, couldn't be extinguished. The world's newest tool for terror. 

“I call it monopolizing, Sebastian,” Moriarty said. Sebastian shivered at the sound of his name. “More left for me.” 

He turned toward Sebastian, eyes blazing. “And I couldn’t have done it without my dog.” 

“Woof, woof,” Sebastian said dryly. 

He sensed his misstep instantly. It was just a small change in the air, indefinable. 

A moon beam slanted gold across Moriarty’s throat. “Get on your knees.” 

Sebastian knew better than to hesitate in the face of a direct order. Still, he cursed himself for having spoken. It was so much safer to be a prop in the backdrop when you were in Moriarty’s world. 

Although. Sebastian had never liked safe. 

The marble floor was cold against his suit-clad knees. At the snap of Moriarty’s fingers, Sebastian crawled toward him wordlessly. This had never been a part of the job description, and Sebastian wondered why he’d allowed himself to succumb to this role. 

_Because the alternative is death,_ a voice not his own suggested. A reasonable assumption. 

Baseless, though. Sebastian had accepted death row when he threw a grenade at his commander. Some part of him felt it was overdue. 

He didn’t stop crawling until Moriarty signaled for him to. He ended up forehead-to-glass against the window. He stayed on all fours, looking down at the swirling stone of the floor. 

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” Moriarty said. 

Sebastian didn’t pause, immediately sitting up to unbutton his suit jacket. He heard his boss chuckle behind him. 

“Sir?” he said. 

“I’ve done my research on you,” Moriarty said. “You were on the brink of being dishonorably discharged for insubordination before you fragged your commander.” 

Sebastian almost stumbled over the knot of his tie at the base of his throat. They’d never talked about Sebastian’s past before, not even when Moriarty had unlocked his cell and led him away from death row. 

“You were a disobedient little brat in the army, weren’t you, Sebastian? But you clearly know how to follow an order when you want to,” Moriarty said. 

Well. That was one theory. 

When Sebastian finished, he waited for the next order, wondering where this was going. 

“The undershirt, too, Sebastian,” Moriarty said softly. 

“Sir?” Sebastian’s voice caught. 

When he heard nothing, he took that as _danger_ and hurried to shrug off the tank top, tossing it aside. For a moment he heard nothing but Moriarty’s breathing. He hadn’t heard Moriarty’s breathing before. 

“Hands to the floor,” Moriarty ordered. Sebastian obeyed. 

The room was either too cold or too hot. The Statue of Liberty burned like something on a movie screen below them. Sebastian focused on his own knuckles, white from how hard he was squeezing his fists. His whole body was clenched tight. He had no idea what was going on, only that his trip down death row wasn’t looking so overdue after all. 

He was still young enough for people to tsk, _“He was so young”_ after he died. Not that anyone would. 

“The flames are reflecting gold against your skin.” Moriarty finally broke the silence. “Your back looks like a flickering canvas.” 

_The fuck?_

Sebastian held his tongue, as he should have in the first place. 

“You wouldn’t expect me to notice something like that,” Moriarty said, reading his mind. 

Sebastian said nothing. Moriarty stepped toward him, close enough that Sebastian could feel the heat of him, his looming presence. 

“You think I’m above it all,” Moriarty continued. “The muscles of your back, the shadows cast by your shoulder blades. You think I’m above beautiful things.” 

He lunged forward. 

“AH – ” Sebastian shoved his fist into his mouth. The tip of a knife sunk into his back. Agony spread through him. 

“I am above it,” Moriarty hissed in his ear. He grabbed Sebastian’s head and straddled him from behind, dragging the knife down Sebastian’s back in a shallow, stinging cut. 

The knife was Sebastian’s. It’d been stitched into his suit jacket a moment ago. 

Moriarty’s hand was squeezing his skull, making his eyes water. Sebastian buckled down. Moriarty straddled him more firmly, and Sebastian kept his fist in his mouth as Moriarty brought the knife down again, carving something into Sebastian’s skin, sending waves of pain-pleasure down his spine. 

All the dormant lava simmering beneath Sebastian’s skin awoke, roiled through him, hot heat pulsing. 

“Culler said you were working for your brother,” Moriarty said. His voice was shaking with apparent fury. 

“What?” Sebastian blurted, taken aback. 

“When you first got into his car,” Moriarty said slowly, “Culler asked if Severin ordered you to meet him there. And you said _yes.”_

The knife carved into him again, and Sebastian moaned helplessly against the feeling. He caught himself midway, did his best to contort it into a moan of pain. 

“I was joking,” Sebastian panted. 

Moriarty’s hand slid down, curling around and taking ahold of Sebastian’s throat. 

Sebastian’s cock was pressing against his pants. The freezing floor wasn’t helping; he was shivering, and for a moment the only words his brain knew were, _Choke me, choke me, choke me._

“You were joking about betraying me?” Moriarty is unamused. “It sounds much likelier that you weren’t.” 

Christ. Sebastian was moments from getting stabbed by his boss, and instead of doing his best to assuage Moriarty, he was a moaning mess on the floor. 

Was there any way Moriarty couldn’t see him for what he was? Broken, needy, and so utterly dedicated to his boss that, yes, Sebastian could turn around and flip this situation right now, pin Moriarty to the ground easily, press a knife against _his_ skin, but he wouldn’t, he would rather die than disobey this man. 

“I was,” Sebastian whispered. “Boss, I swear. I would never…”

“Never what?” 

“Betray you,” he said. “Please, you have to know that. You know everything.” 

“Yes, Sebastian. I do. I know that you’ve lied to me.” 

“I haven’t, sir. Please believe me,” Sebastian begged. He had never begged in his life. “Please, even if you kill me, I don’t care, but I’m loyal to you, sir. _Please.”_

“This is quite the performance, Sebastian.” His voice was so cruel. It tormented Sebastian’s cock. “But you _have_ lied to me.” 

“I wouldn’t, sir.” Sebastian panicked. 

Moriarty threw the knife aside; Sebastian's blood streaked from the blade across the floor in a crimson slash. 

“You have.” His boss dug his nails into Sebastian’s shoulders and leaned down, tonguing into the wound on Sebastian’s back. 

“A-ahh…” Sebastian keened before he could stop himself; his legs moved uncontrollably against the marble. He realized he was pushing hard against the glass. 

This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be. He watched in a haze, seeing Moriarty’s reflection in the glass, and holy _fuck,_ he was on top of Sebastian, his fucking tongue against Sebastian’s skin. Thick licks, taking in Sebastian’s blood. 

Sebastian panted. He could pretend that was from pain, right? He could just, just – 

“Oh, god, Boss.” His voice shook. Every trace of Moriarty’s tongue sent waves of pleasure through him, like his cock was being licked, like this was the single most fucking arousing thing to happen to him. 

Moriarty looked up, and their eyes met in the reflection. Then Moriarty shoved Sebastian’s face into the floor, and Sebastian writhed. Moriarty’s mouth was on him again, and he bit down hard – 

“FUCK, BOSS - !” It came without warning. Sebastian thrust against the ground through his orgasm, grabbing at the glass for want of something to cling to. The lava quaked through him, and he was helpless, couldn’t cover it up. Hiding it wasn’t anywhere on his mind, he was just _coming,_ coming hard without a hand on his cock. The lack of stimulation burned, made it more intense, until he was nearly sobbing, dizzy from pleasure-pain, pain and pleasure and volcanic heat and pain. 

He wasn’t given time to recover. Moriarty shoved Sebastian around, so that he was on his back between Moriarty’s legs. His open wounds screamed, made Sebastian dizzy with the goodness of it. He felt _alive._

“You’ve wanted this for months now,” Moriarty said. “I’ve seen half your self-control go toward hiding it from me, when you should have been concentrating on your job instead.” 

Moriarty grabbed Sebastian’s bulge, rubbed his oversensitive cock through his pants. Sebastian cringed and writhed, and then Moriarty was looming over him, saying, “Don’t. _Ever._ Hide anything from me _again.”_

He kissed Sebastian, and Sebastian was almost disappointed by its softness, before Moriarty took Sebastian’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, drawing blood. 

Sebastian groaned, reached out and grabbed Moriarty’s shoulders, wanting him closer. Moriarty cuffed the side of his head. 

When they broke apart, blood trickling down Sebastian’s chin, Moriarty looked down at him and said, “Go clean yourself up. Then meet me in the bedroom. I’m not done with you.” 

He stood up, and the beautiful fucker didn’t look fazed, didn’t have a single wrinkle in his suit. He strolled toward the bedroom. It took Sebastian a full minute of panting on the floor before he was able to rise. 

  


In the bathroom, he took a cold shower to rinse off the blood, ignoring the pain of the open cuts. When he emerged, he peered over his shoulder, looking at his back in the mirror. 

He gaped. His heartbeat quickened. He’d thought Moriarty had been carving something into his skin, but he hadn’t expected words, or for those words to be _Good boy._

Something stirred in Sebastian’s chest. 

His boss thought he was good. 

“Sebastian?” Moriarty’s voice came from outside the door. “What are you doing?” 

“Boss.” His voice was thick with gratitude. “I’m coming.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 should be up soon, and we'll come back to Severin and Richie, but honestly let me know if I've meandered too much. My outline is all like, "I'm here if you need me, friend c: " and I'm all like MORMORMORMORMOR.


End file.
